


They Were Giants

by paperweight_world



Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell, Simon Snow & Related Fandoms
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Aftermath of Violence, Angst, Angst and Feels, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Anxiety, Break Up, Canon-Typical Violence, College/University, Depression, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Implied/Referenced Torture, Kidnapping, M/M, Mental Breakdown, Mental Health Issues, Numpties (Simon Snow), Panic Attacks, Post-Book 1: Carry On, Post-Break Up, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Romance, Scones, Simon's past comes to light, Songfic, Sour Cherry Scones (Simon Snow), Torture, Vampires, happy ending I promise, so many scones, the Mage made a mistake
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-23
Updated: 2020-07-17
Packaged: 2021-03-02 02:21:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 12
Words: 26,954
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23797603
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/paperweight_world/pseuds/paperweight_world
Summary: Post-Carry On, Simon and Baz find themselves separate, navigating the emotional aftermath of the Mage’s plans. What if Baz wasn’t the first vampire with magic? What if the first had been employed for the darker part of Simon’s origins? Would Fiona leave Baz to die for disgracing the family by being kidnapped by numpties twice? Numpties and vampires galore, and all plot points and chapter titles are inspired by the lyrics to Bear Hands’ song Giants, the “MOST SIMONY SONG THAT HAS EVER SIMONED.”Regularly updated weekly, sometimes twice a week if we're lucky.
Relationships: Nicodemus Petty/Fiona Pitch, Penelope Bunce & Simon Snow, Penelope Bunce & Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch, Penelope Bunce & Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch & Simon Snow, Penelope Bunce/Micah Cordero, Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch & Simon Snow, Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch/Simon Snow
Comments: 13
Kudos: 32





	1. Giants

**BAZ**  
I wake up to the aroma of fresh-baked sour cherry scones. This would be the absolute dream for Simon, and to me, waking up to scones brings the pleasant possibility of Simon softened around the edges, his anxiety worn out from eggs, sugar, and butter. I mustn’t have been wholeheartedly, committedly, shockingly awake though, because once several blurry seconds have passed my vampire senses kick in and I smell the smoke. And the clock registers two in the morning.

My first thought is that Simon has gone off. It is possible; he always smells a little bit like the mouthwateringly sickening medicinal sour cherries that Cook Pritchard insists on using, and who am I kidding: Simon, magic or no, will always smell like something I’d gladly eat. And the smoke. Always the smoke before and after the fire. After he’d gone off.

My fight-or-flight response is to (always, always) reach out for Simon, but then I remember that I’m in my dorm room in LSE (Father was quite insistent on having me stay on uni premises to socialise and “meet people,” just as enthusiastic as he’d been about continuing my education in something that was not magic; Fiona reckons it’s because magic killed my mother in the end, and speaking to dreadful Normals about Keynesian economics is the furthest thing from magickal) and Simon is of course not in my room.

I tumble out of bed, losing my grace, and swear loudly (I’m lucky to not have a roommate to share this ridiculously cramped space: coffin-sized bed, a desk so small that one day’s worth of my first-year Watford schoolwork wouldn’t have fit, an outrageous excuse of a closet, an en-suite shower that I’ve tried in vain to cure of odd smells by drowning myself in cedar and bergamot soaps every time I walk in, and thankfully a small refrigerator, microwave, and sink outside).

“Bollocks! Crowley!”

That wasn’t my swearing, and I catch a secondary wave of smoke, foul and not as earthy and whole as Simon’s magic had been. I round the corner and turn on the lights.

To find Simon Snow with flour in his hair, tending to a small exploded heap of what one can only assume is unevenly baked, unfortunately microwaved scone dough.

“Hey,” I say carefully, because that’s what you say to your narcoleptic, insomniac boyfriend of six months who breaks into your dorm room and stress-bakes using your crappy uni microwave in a criminally ungodly hour in the night.

“Baz! Come over here, will you? I’m not sure what I did wrong, the measurements were right, I used cold butter, I-”

“Snow, you utter numpty, you used a microwave.”

His face flattens into the expression I’ve seen him use on one too many goblins. His fight-or-flight response.

“Why do you say such cruel things?” _He always crumples after. After shutting himself out and gearing up for a fight._

“Simon, love, look, let’s go to bed. You can kip in the room. I’ve a few bags of Walkers I can dig out.”

“I don’t want your pity.” _I’ve never pitied you, with or without the smoke. You still smell like scones and tea and samosas and roast beef sandwiches and soft afternoon sunshine._

“Also some mint Aeros in the nightstand if you’d like.” Other couples keep objects foreign to us in the nightstand (I haven’t broached the subject because I’m scared and I’m unsure of how vampirism could complicate the actual process and I’m scared of losing him and I’m scared), but I store family packs of mint Aeros to make Simon feel welcome. Food always solves problems. Food puts off the temporary glitches that come with missing your magic.

“I don’t want your food, either.”

I take a good look at him, and see that he’d filched one of my smaller Watford football jerseys. He’s got one of his own, yet he elects to wear mine. “I’m sorry. I’m knackered. I’ll clean up tomorrow. Can we go to bed?”

His head snaps downwards in guilt, and I feel myself wilt.

“Did I wake you, Baz?” Did he not see that all the lights were off? How far out of it is he this time? I feel the familiar surge of rage towards the Mage, the Humdrum, and the entire World of Magicks for abandoning Simon. For stealing his magic.

“No, I was studying, actually. Exam tomorrow. Case study on the Lehman Brothers Collapse.” Better to let him think that I was up cramming something dreadful, and that this was a pleasant surprise. I suppress my anger at the world, anything to lighten the mood, and force a grin, hoping it’s not too much a grimace.

**SIMON**  
He knows that any smile of his will work on me.

**BAZ**  
“Tea?” I ask, as a peace offering, and this time when the corners of Simon’s eyes crinkle I can’t help but let out a slow smile.

**SIMON**  
That bastard knows that I love him and his posh royal flush ginger tea too much to say no. Besides, I’d just spent the previous hour blubbering in a late-night cab, feeling too much and then too little as I remembered. The fighting. The dragon. Baz’s Hampshire home up in flames. Ebb dying, and my inability to help, to use my magic. The Mage dying, and it was all my fault. A broken piece of Latin that the Minotaur must’ve installed in my head had kept repeating: _mea culpa, mea culpa, mea culpa_. My fault. I was the Chosen One, and we were giants.

Now, I rely on Baz's ginger tea (“It’s royal flush ginger tea with a hint of orange and bergamot, Si. The Queen’s first sip of tea from Ceylon. It’s historically significant and a marvellous tea all on its own,” I remember Penny saying as she accepted tea after we surprised Baz by picking the lock to his dorm room with her ring) to feel warm, after my magic had gone, the warmth I’d been carrying leaving with it. There’s nothing wrong with not feeling uncomfortably hot anymore, but the first time Penny broke down the door while I was having a wash I knew. She cried for the rest of the day as Baz hit me with healing spells. I’d been taking scalding hot showers; I needed to run hot. How else will I be able to keep Baz warm? He's a vampire who heats up blood before meals, and secretly is the small spoon. Baz is always so cold, and I need to keep him warm. They didn't understand.

How else will I be able to retain a bit of who I was?

**BAZ**  
Simon lost his magic, and I was there. I felt the distance between Simon and the world, between us, grow.

**SIMON**  
I close the distance between us, smiling at Baz, and allow myself to feel.

He’ll give me this. He always does.

**BAZ**  
I’ll be damned if Simon doesn’t know I’ll always give this to him. I slant my head downwards and close my eyes. The warmth of his breath fills the gap in between, and I feel myself shiver. Simon huffs a quiet laugh, and his breath tickles my lips again. I lean in for a brush, and-

That’s when the smoke detector goes off.


	2. Bear Hands

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The aftermath of the scone-related late-night disaster requires a magickal clean-up, fluff and emotional chit-chat, and a frantic phone call from our favourite: the one and only Penelope Bunce.

**PENNY**

I’m humming to myself, preparing a quick fry-up with extra beans for me and extra everything for Simon, shaking my head at the lack of butter in the refrigerator-- seriously, how is one supposed to prepare a decent slice of toast without any butter, and how many times do I have to chastise Simon for his irresponsible, spur-of-the-moment stress baking-- and I suddenly realise that a block of butter so cleanly disappeared, as if someone had skillfully _Out, Out, Damned Spot_ ’d or _Into Thin Air_ ’d it, must’ve equated a hasty scone-making fest. From months of living with Simon, one learns that scones equate a convenient breakfast courtesy of Simon and a convenient breakfast courtesy of Simon equates one's not having to cook.

Yet for the love of Morgana I do not, anywhere in this flat, smell scones, nor is our state-of-the-art panic-purchased-for-Simon oven looking as if it had birthed scones in the past 12 hours. He could not have possibly just eaten the entire block of butter, though that seems more likely than the butter magickally vaporising, seeing as Simon simply cannot bear wasting butter by practising disappearing spells and, y’know, he no longer has magic. 

(If Baz were here, he’d scoff and remark that given that Simon’s consistently eaten butter with a spoon, straight from the aluminium wrapper, my confident hypothesis of Simon’s eating the whole block might well be correct.)

Oh well, extra scones would be a nice snack, and toast without butter might be a good idea every once in a while. I plate up our breakfasts, and eat alone. (I always eat alone in the mornings now; best to let Simon sleep in when he can. He hasn’t slept well in ages, and I worry.) I’ll have to wake him later though, before breakfast turns cold.

**BAZ**

I awaken on the floor.

With an undignified groan, I wipe my eyes clear and the events of last night return to my mind: the smoke, the panic, the rubbish pile of unfortunately microwaved unmicrowavable scones currently on my tabletop, the smoke detector I spelled mute using _Keep Schutum_ and _Silence!_ (the latter’s too common and too easy, I know, but it’s not like I have anyone to show off to besides a panicking boyfriend at 2AM) and of course Simon bloody Snow, who is the apparent reason that I’m not in my bed.

**SIMON**

_Please let him not notice that I’m already awake._ It’s honestly not something I can bloody control, now is it, with my tail having a mind of its own, wreaking havoc in my sleep and vaulting Baz off the tiny bed. 

Besides, there’s something quite funny about sneaking glances at Baz as he realises his current situation.

**BAZ**

I look up, and see Simon feigning sleep poorly with the corners of his mouth twitching, facing me. _Crowley, how is it that he spent all those years thinking that I was the one to plot?_

“Simon,” I reach up and wildly shake him, and his composure fails him as he shakes back and forth with laughter, “You can’t just kick me out of my own bed, you absolute nightmare.”

**SIMON**

I can’t help it, and I’ve been watching him sleep for at least the past ten minutes (that’s right, I watch my vampire boyfriend sleep), torn between the prospect of sneaking out before Baz can push me down the stairs like we’re in fifth year again and the idea of laying in bed and smothering myself in the covers.

I didn’t smother myself, of course. I’d bundled up in the blanket and gazed at Baz’s figure, because he looked young, peaceful, and happy. He always does in his sleep. His mouth looks fuller in the dead of the night, but if he’s having a lie-in 7AM in the morning? He looks damn kissable. Actually, he looks damn kissable even with his fangs out. I suppose that makes me a little disturbed.

I shoot him a grin and clamber down, still bundled up, and do just that. Kiss him, I mean. It’s a silent apology for last night, for barging in and disturbing him. I knew he wasn’t studying. Well, I didn’t know until he attempted to lie and told me he was studying, shifting his left foot forwards and backwards. It’s his tell.

**BAZ**

One of his hands slides up against my cheek, and it radiates heat. He’s always so warm, and it’s always so good. My arm snakes around his waist to pull him in.

My mobile rings suddenly, and Queen’s “Don’t Stop Me Now” blasts unfairly joyfully as we spring apart like a cautious pair of virgin schoolboys. That, we are not (schoolboys, and cautious, I presume).

I hear Simon sigh as I get up, stretch, and languidly pick up my mobile from my rotten excuse of a study desk. Caller ID says Bunce, but her personalised ringtone is enough to let us know. I toss my mobile to Simon, and grab a green polo shirt and dark jeans before heading to the washroom. I know Simon will like me in this outfit.

**SIMON**

I catch the phone from the air and watch as Baz deliberates over his clothing choice before he finally selects the god awful forest green shirt that brings back memories of not only our first kiss but also his suicidal panic and a pair of nice dark jeans that I do actually love on him (not the ones that are snug and hug his legs though, pity). I climb back up onto Baz’s bed and I click to answer. 

“Listen very carefully, Basil. Have you seen Simon? I’ve been looking everywhere for him for so long but not as long as I have been lamenting over the disappearance of an entire block of butter, which is morally dubious, really, and perhaps Simon’s gone off to America or Portugal or Japan or. . . What places are particularly beautiful this time of year? He’s not in his room, and neither is the butter and anyway I think he’s stress baking somewhere and did he happen to leave you a message or anything because he’s not answering his phone and maybe it’s on silent but you know I worry very easily so-”

“Penny. Penny, it’s me.”

“Oh, hiya, Si! I’m sorry, it’s just that I couldn’t find you and you know. I worry easily. As I said.”  
  


“Yes, that. Really, don’t worry about me. I just happened to head over to Baz’s and I did take the butter but no scones came out of it so all is fine. I’m okay, I swear, just knackered. And hungry. Don’t you have work?”

“Oh, thank Mary and Morgana, you’re alright. Why didn’t you answer your phone?”

“It was on silent.”  
  


“Turn on the sound then! How else are the love of your life and your best friend supposed to find you?” I squirm on Baz’s bed and brace myself to answer.

“I didn’t bring my phone out. I forgot to. It should still be in my room.” I hear the sounds of Penny trudging around our flat, and I hear my bedroom door squeaking open as Penny rustles around and sighs.

“Yeah, found it. Simon, be honest with me. Were you stressed out again? You know you can always talk to me, right?”

I always trust Penny with my life, but I really can’t bring myself to talk about this. I don’t have the words to express it, this need to run hot again, or make myself useful by recreating Cook Pritchard’s scones late at night when nightmares covered in red plague me: my lost red rubber ball, the red dragon that I would have unjustly killed if it weren’t for Baz’s quick thinking, the red of the fire that must have killed Baz’s mum. The bright red blood all over Ebb in the Weeping Tower, and Baz nearly going into a frenzy because of the sheer amount of it. The red that was missing from the Mage, who I killed anyway.

Penny continues on, telling me to keep my head above the water and that she’ll come back early from work today. “I made a fry-up if you’d like some. It’s just on the table though the beans may be congealing as we speak, Si, so remember to heat it up!”

“Yeah, alright. See ya, Pen. Sorry for worrying you.” I feel tired and distracted, and tell myself that it’s just because I had a late one.

**BAZ**

I return to the room, having washed up, changed into socially acceptable wear, and appropriately _A Place for Everything and Everything In Its Place_ ’d the microwave and countertop, Simon’s terribly chosen late-night makeshift kitchen.

Simon looks up at me, and tosses the mobile back. “Penny just wanted to make sure that I was okay.”

“And are you? Love, you know you’re welcome here anytime, of course, but-”

“I know. I’m sorry about last night.” His voice goes stiff. Why is it stiff? A moment ago he was giggling and rolling around on the floor, tangled up in my blankets. We were having a snog. A good one.

“Snow-”

“You called me Simon before. Baz, do you ever feel like it was better back at Watford? I loved Watford even when I didn’t think I loved you.”

“Simon. I’m sorry, Simon. I don’t have any classes today, though I’ve a quick study group later. We can make scones afterwards at your flat. The proper way. And how about a square truce then, as we had in Watford? If luck has it, a truce may lead us to solve another untimely murder.”

“Yeah, let’s do that.”

“The truce, murder, or baking?”  
  


**SIMON**

Are we flirting? Is this rare genuine flirting or is he too afraid around me to talk about real things? Am I making those I love step around on eggshells?

“The baking, of course,” I say, raising my eyebrows (I can never do that as pretentiously as Baz does, and I have to admit I can’t do that as wonderfully adorable as he does, either), “Wouldn’t want to start a truce and rewind back to a time when I couldn’t kiss you.”

**BAZ**

I’m lucky I haven’t fed yet this morning, or I would’ve been blushing like, again, a cautious virginal schoolboy would. I hadn’t realised that we’d been flirting.

“Don’t be ridiculous, Simon, the truce was what made you fall for my glorious self. Come on, let’s go to your flat. I’ll get you a croissant on the way. I fancy a pumpkin mocha breve something fierce.”

He takes my hand.

It’ll always be this good. It has to be.

**SIMON**

Everything about Baz is cold, temperature-wise (he’s a big dork and never cold at heart, and I am morally obligated to tell everyone that), but his hands feel warm. He once told me that his mum had called them fire-holders’ hands.

Everything about Baz is beautiful and elegant. His hands, especially, though he sometimes tugs them away when I compliment them. He says they’re just full of calluses (that’s what comes with his lovely fire-holders’ hands, though, innit? I asked Penny what she thought about this and she shrugged and said I must have some sort of fascination about my boyfriend’s hands that verged on an unhealthy fetish).

Everything about Baz is mine, yet not. He likes to say that we match, but I’m a mess and a fallen hero, and though he thinks he lost his soul back at the Watford nursery when he was five years-old, Baz is the most alive person I know. I can never tell this to anyone because I’m just not eloquent enough and I’d sound too mushy (“Use your words, Snow,” Baz would say, probably with a sneer, or maybe not because he wouldn’t want to seem so mushy either). Regardless, he’s the only one who braved the shadows with me and emerged with fire-holders’ hands.

**PENNY**

I’d wager that the pair are snogging right now. They’re far more disgusting than Micah and I are. Nicks and Slick, at the very least, Simon must be daydreaming about Baz’s “fire-holders’ hands.” He has a fixation problem, Simon does.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I may be posting more frequently than originally planned... We'll see how this goes! All comments and suggestions are welcome. 
> 
> Next chapter will be up soon! Things will escalate and we'll have tension then, I promise.


	3. Two Words

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The gang has a terribly awkward breakfast, they eat scones (I did warn you; this work is going to have SO MANY SCONES), Micah's about to debut in this story, Baz spirals, and something horrible happens (no one dies I promise; well, maybe a piece of your heart does).

**BAZ**

Yesterday was a good day. I’d ended up buying two croissants, one pumpkin mocha breve, and two gingerbread lattes. I’d gotten side glances by people behind me, and I’d heard a woman in line with yoga wear exclaim, “that’s my _exact_ order!” to her friend, who was also decked out in full yoga wear. (Of course, that’s not why yesterday was a good day.)

Yesterday was a good day because I’d pretended to eat my smoked salmon and brie croissant while Simon wolfed down his ham and cheese and drained the two gingerbread lattes more enthusiastically than I had back when I took my first thirsty, messy helping of Watford catacomb rat blood. It was a good day because I eventually gave Simon my croissant and watched him as he slowed down between bites of food to give me pointed looks and under-the-table nudges (he wouldn’t dare to peck me in public; he knows-- _thinks_ \-- I wouldn’t like it; I actually would. Love it).

Yesterday was a good day because I could barely focus on my study session and my TA let me leave early: “It’s rare to see you this happy, Tyrannus. You must have a lucky guy waiting for you to go home.” (I never let people at uni call me Baz. That’s too soft and too Simon-y. To everyone at LSE, I’m either Tyrannus or Ty.) I _am_ happy. And Simon Snow’s not the lucky one; _I am_.

I’d taken Simon for a stroll through the park, and we’d gotten curry and chips before heading back to his flat and realizing we hadn’t bought any butter to replace the block that Simon swears Bunce had been ranting on and on about; we’d gone out to Tesco’s, where Simon filled half the trolley full with mint Aeros and I’d matched his purchase with and equal volume of butter (as a practical joke to Bunce. Also, I couldn’t resist after seeing Simon’s face light up, seeing that much butter).

We’d then made enough scones to feed a small army, and halfway through the baking marathon and one-third through an impromptu snog that had evolved into a make-out fest amidst precariously positioned bag of flour and sugar, Bunce had returned and vowed to clean up the mess, with a knowing smile on her face as we turned in for an early night. We both needed it-- I’d collapsed on the bed and Simon shortly after, and I’d feigned interest in my assigned reading ( _Freakonomics_ , both its title and tone horrifyingly American) as Simon drew himself up against me and-

**SIMON**

We’re eating breakfast at my flat because Baz stayed over last night, but I can tell his head isn’t in this space. He’s downing his re-heated mug of pig’s blood from the market and chewing on a piece of toast thoughtfully, but perhaps it’s because Penny isn’t here that It’s okay, sometimes, to let his mind wander. Crowley knows I would find it difficult to be absolutely invested in a mess and a disappointing artefact castaway of the Humdrum and a morally corrupt Head of the World of Magicks.

I’ve half a mind to ask him what he’s thinking about but Penny’s here. On this table, too, eating with us, and it’s a very communal breakfast but there is no conversation and I wonder why so. I wonder if she heard us last night.

I think Baz put up a silencing spell, did he not?

I glance at him, but he still looks so faraway and not at all likely to engage in awkward silent speech the logistics of the night before.

I suppose I should clarify: we hadn’t done anything outwardly spectacular last night. We’d stopped, but I don’t want to think about it-- about what would have happened if I hadn’t told him that I might not be ready, about the possibility of beating Penny to stripping off the virgin status, about the possibility of not having to sit at a breakfast table where the two people I love most about the world are clearly not as anxious or panicked about how anxious and panicked I was last night.

**PENNY**

Those two need to work out whatever they did last night. And I think I need to tell Baz that _Silencio!_ only works when one wields a wand. Like most silencing spells, the caster can’t afford to be wandless.

I can’t bring myself to broach the subject though. I’ve a sort of quiet dignity about me and so does Baz. I don’t know which he’d be more embarrassed by: the fact that his clearly desperate yell of _Silencio!_ didn’t work or my knowledge of what they were up to as I was outside cleaning. Their mess.

**BAZ**

I’m getting myself too worked up with thoughts like these, so I’m making sure to paste on a cool, expressionless face as I slowly push the food around on my plate and methodically spread clotted cream onto one of the scones ( _scones_ not _sc-oh-nes_ , as Simon says them, upon which both Bunce and I have casted our immense disdain; Simon reckons it’s just because we’re (I’m) posh, but Bunce theorises that it’s due to her true British background and the fact that my parents are Conservatives) we’d made yesterday.

I look over at Simon, but he seems deep in thought as well, which means he hasn’t noticed my very physical problem (see: getting myself too worked up with last night’s events), which is good. It would be beyond inappropriate to scare Bunce without Simon being a willing accomplice.

The issue of Simon’s mental state is obvious to Bunce, however, as it is becoming exceedingly clear that she’s been sending furtive glances at me. She might be worried about Simon, but it’s not as if we could ever make this an acceptable breakfast topic.

**PENNY**

Baz knows I know. About last night, that is. I can see it written all over his grey face, contorting with discomfort as he realizes that I’ve been projecting signals.

Oh well, time to do what I do best (though Agatha would object and call me _spontaneous_ and _improper_ ):

“Dearest Basil, you should know that _Silencio!_ only works when you have a wand in your hand.”

**SIMON**

I think I might have just died.

**BAZ**

And just like that, a pressing mortification solves my very physical problem and any worry about Bunce confronting Simon about his feelings.

Simon’s spit out a very ambitious bite of his scone, but thankfully it only goes on his plate and not all over my prized sleep shirt (it’s one of Simon’s soft blue t-shirts, the exact shade of his eyes, and I should hate to have it sconed).

“And desperately exclaiming a sixth-year spell nine times does your poor soundproofing attempts no good,” Bunce continues, and I just about lose it.

But I don’t. Lose it.

I force my face into a neutral look and say, “Thank you for your much appreciated advice. Snow and I will take that into mind next time.”

**PENNY**

Judging from the shade of Simon’s face, there just might not be a next time. I thump him on the back and the colour returns to his cheeks.

“So! Did I get it bang on?” (Pun absolutely intended, because I can’t resist making them go bonkers, especially Baz, the unruffled prick.)

“Pen!” Simon exclaims, gobsmacked, just as Baz cooly replies, “A gentleman doesn’t kiss and tell.”

**BAZ**

I’m more than relieved that Bunce has decided to put off talking to Simon about everything. Her puns have also It’s difficult, and I can think of innumerable ways it could get botched, and lose Simon.

I never want to lose Simon, and sometimes to carry on one simply has to carry on.

**PENNY**

I get up with my dishes and toss them into the sink. 

“Well, I’m all done so I should head out now. Might catch the 9 o’clock shuttle to Heathrow if I hurry,” I say as I glance at the clock on the wall that Simon had installed when we first moved in. It’s the colour of fresh-baked scones, and Simon had insisted that we place it right by the kitchen. I suspect that Baz only allowed this because it was also the precise shade of bronze that Simon’s baby curls are.

“Wait. Heathrow? Why? I thought we would be able to hang out a bit. You’ve been pretty busy with work this past week.”

I have been, but it’s all because I have to cram in an extra work so I have numbers to show before taking Micah on a grand tour of London. With luck, I might even be able to bring him and myself as plus-ones alongside Simon to visit Baz’s childhood home in Hampshire. 

From what I’ve heard, it’s practically a historical site and oozes elegance. I’ve even heard rumours about the late Natasha Pitch having installed enchanted beams all through the hallways to ward the house from spirits, though from Simon’s account of last Christmas they must not have worked. “Gargoyles, Pen. I’m not taking the piss. I swear the house is one haunted mansion.”

I sigh, but Baz beats me to it. “Simon, you nitwit, Micah’s flying over for a visit. For a fortnight? Penny won’t be here to babysit you much and she’s booked a hotel and everything. We’ll have the place to ourselves.”

Perhaps it would be difficult to plan an outing to Hampshire when all they want to do is lounge around and hopefully practice Baz’s hand at silencing spells.

“Oh. Right! Well, do you want us to go with you?” Simon looks up at me hopefully, and Baz stares intently at a corner of the tablecloth.

“No, that’s alright. You two should have some quality time, as should Micah and myself. Besides, having Micah and I compete with the two of you in an epic snogfest would not be my cup of tea.”

“Epic snogfest?” Simon grins, while Baz turns his head and sneers enthusiastically.

I can’t wait to meet Micah, and I know that these two will have just too much fun. I’ve unfortunately listened to enough of Simon’s rants to be well aware of how Baz’s sneers correlate with his flirtatious moods.

“Alright, I’m off! Simon, it’s your turn to clean up and wash the dishes!”

“Yes, got it! Have fun with Micah!”

“But not too much fun!” Baz echoes.

I grab my handbag, checking that my wand is in it, and grab my deep purple trench coat (which I did buy just so I could say “Deep Purple”) for good measure. London weather is famously finicky.

“‘Goodbye, goodbye, parting is such sweet sorrow!’” _Romeo and Juliet_ quotes are a bit much, but Baz will appreciate the reference.

I step out and send a quick text to Micah. **text back when u see this! i’ll be by the gate.**

**BAZ**

Bunce leaves, and just like that it’s as if we’ve deemed it okay to broach the subject after the initial mortification has passed. I’m quite certain that Simon had thought the same as I did-- that Bunce was thinking about the baking and that time Simon had practically burnt a layer of his skin off in the shower.

I sometimes find myself absentmindedly monitoring the steam levels just to make sure that he doesn’t scare us again. I'm always scared, still.

“Simon,” I say, “Do you think you’ll ever consider getting someone to talk to? Someone like-”

“I’ve you and Pen, don’t I?”

“No, love, I mean someone who’s a professional at this sort of thing. Someone who’s been hired before.”

“So I can spend two hours a week being studied by a magickal therapist who doesn’t understand?”

He’s getting defensive, but I knew this conversation wasn’t going to be even remotely easy. I press on, because it’s for his good. It’ll do us good.

“No one’s going to ogle prod at you. You’re not a spectacularly interesting specimen.”

“So maybe I’m not! So maybe that all was gone the minute I gave in to the Humdrum.” 

There is an utter, uncomfortable silence, and then he deflates. This is worse than the shouting. “I just mean, I don’t want a stranger to give me instructions on how to breathe and how to sleep. I don’t want control.”

Is this about the Mage?

**SIMON**

I just don’t know if he understands. If even Baz doesn’t understand, what does that make me?

“Love, whatever you’re feeling, you’ve . . . you’ve got to let go and let us know.”

I’ve never heard Baz talk like this, even when he broke down and told me about his mum. I’ve never heard him lost for words.

“Use your words, Baz.”

**BAZ**

I simply cannot stand by and watch him waste away.

“Simon, maybe it’s best for you to find someone to talk to. I mean it. Not just me or Bunce, but-”

“Stop trying to do this to me! I don’t want other people to know, and what are they going to think, having the Chosen One scheduled for a psych eval?”  
  


“What- No, we’re going in circles now. Can we just be rational and talk?”

“Well, you seem to think that we can’t talk and that I need someone else.”

This is escalating. Why is this escalating? Isn’t this what people have to talk about, especially when they love each other.

**SIMON**

I don’t know why he’s closing the distance between us, and for a moment his cruel sneer falls away. This is not the right time for a snog, and the bastard knows that.

“Are you trying to snog me away from suicide? I’m not even near to suicide. There’s nothing wrong with me!”

He steps back, a look of bewilderment on his face, but it slowly resettles. Some part of him must have wanted to recreate that night in the forest, when I kissed away his suicidal funk.

“No, Simon. Please.”

“I know that look, you bastard. You bastard! You gave me an out during the Leavers’ Ball. This is an out.”

“Simon, we’re going nowhere. What about I give you some time and we can revisit this later, after Micah and Penny arrive?”  
  


“After Micah and Penny? Are you trying to throw as many people into this mess I am? I’m sorry that I’m not good enough for you and your sodding mansion and your gothic dining table and gargoyles. Maybe we were never made for each other.”

**BAZ**

Now I’m panicking. “We must be. We match.” I try to muster a smile, but nothing comes.

“Didn’t you always say that I was the worst Chosen One to ever be chosen? You must be happy now, studying and earning a degree. You’ve a family. You don’t need me. That night at the Leavers’ Ball. You gave me a choice,” he spits, and I’ve never seen him this good with words.

“Simon, we’re two people who love each other. You know that I don’t care about all that. I’ve been bloody obsessed with you since fifth year.”

“No. I was stalking you and you were suffering from bloodlust. That’s not the same, and you know it!” His voice echoes through the hallway, and I wince.

**SIMON**

I saw that. He crumpled, and I continue.

“You know far better than anyone that things haven’t been great, but that gives you no right, absolutely no right to assume that I’ve tried anything. How dare you!”

“Penny found you in the shower! I was the one who healed you, you numpty. I saw!”

“I know you saw!” I roar back, and for a moment it’s blissful. We’re more coordinated when we fight.

**BAZ**

I don’t know what to do.

“Simon, I love-”

“No! No, don't say it.”

I’m unmoored and falling through the floor, the dirt underneath, and the seas beyond. I fish my keys out from the dish by the door, grab my coat, and leave. It’s raining outside, how fitting. He said he wanted an out. I’m giving him an out.

I’ll always love you, Simon Snow, even if you didn’t let me say all three words.

**SIMON**

I don’t know what I was doing. What did I just do?

I didn’t even let him say past the two words.

_I love you but I can’t._

**PENNY**

I pick up the call while in the car on my way to the airport. Though I’m not that great of a driver (Baz is, but then he’s frustratingly good at everything, that tosser), I’ll always answer Simon’s calls. Because he’s Simon.

“Yeah, Si, hi, I’ve not even gone on the motorway. If you’re calling to ask about donuts, I’ll grab one in the airport on the way back and-”

  
He’s sobbing. _Simon, what did you do this time?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Super long chapter this week! Also, wow a 6000 word story and we're only a tenth of the way there.  
> Also, I'm sorry I had to do this to them but it had to happen. I did warn you that they'd be tension coming... Will Penny pick up the pieces?  
> Next up: numpties galore!


	4. Rock, Chalk

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warning: a tension-filled chapter.
> 
> The aftermath of the break-up leads to Simon's spiralling, a very worried Penny and confused but caring Micah, and a distracted and kidnapped Baz.
> 
> A horrifying phone call is made, and we get to see some organised planning in action.

**PENNY**

He’s a blubbering mess when I get back with a very worried Micah in tow.

Simon’s on the sofa, and I see that the kitchen still looks the same. Even our breakfasts are still on the dining table. They must have had a row just after I’d left, then.

“Merlin, Pen, I don’t know what I did. It just sort of happened and now he’s gone.”

“What happened?” Micah asks gently, and I realise that it was the right choice for me to insist that Micah come along. When I’d broke the news to him, he hadn’t wanted to come initially: _“Penny, maybe it’s best that you meet him alone. He trusts you. You’re family.”_

_“If I’m family then you’re family too,”_ I’d said to him.

Simon blinks up at us slowly and speaks through hiccupping sobs, “I don’t know what I did and I’m such an idiot and I know he meant well and I know it so why didn’t I know what to do and I honestly just said things, Pen. Honest things. Mean things, but I didn’t think that he would actually _leave_.”

“Oh, Si, it’s okay. Baz doesn’t just leave. You two were wired up, probably, and I know Baz. He wouldn’t ever hurt you,” I say, because I truly believe so. Baz wouldn’t have just left Simon.

“Penny’s right. Baz is a solid man, and from what I’ve heard he’s crazy about you,” Micah adds.

“I thought so too, and look what that got me. He always said that we matched, but I think we were never meant to be. I’m a psych case, and he’s the Pitch heir. I was-- am still-- a charity case, and he’s Old Family material. I don’t think we, our relationship, anything, really worked.” His voice drops to a whisper, but from many nights as children whispering secrets in the dark when I’d sneak into Mummer’s House just to annoy Baz, I’m more than capable of hearing him and listening. Just listening.

“Simon, you should never think less of yourself. You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to Baz, and Baz is a great friend and a majestic bastard of a boyfriend. You’ve said so yourself! He’ll be back in no time.” I’m confident in Baz.

**SIMON**

What did I get myself into, thinking during that Christmas that everything would be alright? Did I kiss him out of his suicidal funk just to save him? I haven’t even worked out if I’m gay. What happens now? I can’t just crash with Penny and Micah. I love Pen and Micah’s a solid bloke to live with, but I can’t stay with them knowing that they haven’t had any time together for a year.

Did Baz and I start with one foot out the door?

Were we ever meant to be? We matched, but did we love each other enough? I know I did.

I don’t know if he did.

**BAZ**

The next Normal who gives me a classic, “Oi, fuck off, you tosser” look is getting thrown in the Thames. I’m swearing on my mother’s old textbooks.

I must look horrible. My hair is wild, I’d thrown on my loafers on a hurry, and I must be snarling an extra amount. Several Normals have already tossed worried glances at me, though the annoyed outnumber the concerned. 

I’d grabbed my coat, but I didn’t want to put it on, even though it’s raining and appropriately freezing. Break-up weather.

Simon-breaking-up-with-me weather.

Simon-begging-for-an-out weather.

My-letting-go-of-that-beautiful-bastard weather.

Simon’s always run hot, and even midnight strolls to calm the panic in his head were never too cold. I’ve always leaned into him. I’ve discovered that I quite enjoy affection. Affection I’d never have again.

I suppose I won’t throw on my coat. No point in feeling warm anymore. I’ll just go back to being cold all the time. Crowley knows that that’s how I survived before Simon Snow bloody crashed into my world and made me feel content about my place in it.

He’s always said that I wasn’t a monster. Why did he look at me like that then, when he was the one growling at me, pleading for an out?

I toss the coat as I pass a bench in the nearby park where we’ve shared several curries on one too many impromptu date nights to quiet Simon’s spiraling. I’ve half a mind to keep the coat not because it was nice-- _it is nice, and it’s one of the only nice things that Simon’s given me, though my father would still send it to a tailor for resizing; he did insist that Vera “tend to it”--_ but because it would one of the few things I have left from Simon.

Why didn’t I beg, too? Was I just too proud to ask for one more chance, to sit down and understand him? Why did I push him to find a therapist?

He needs to speak to someone. I suppose I’d pushed because I cared.

I couldn’t watch him waste away.

Perhaps without me, he wouldn’t waste away.

That still doesn’t make leaving easy. I tell myself, _I’ll give him a week of space, and let Penny and Micah take care of him. Then, I’ll be back._

I head for the Tube. No point loitering around this place, where so many of our memories are entwined in the trees, benches, and even that small bump in the sidewalk where Simon had once sprained his ankle and I’d thrown an arm over him and guided him home.

I’ll have to stop thinking about their flat as home. For at least a week. Until the dust settles.

I turn the corner, and _voila_ , I enter Blackfriars and head towards the District Circle line, or I try to.

The world goes dark before I’ve time to register the blow to the back of my neck, where my bite marks have haunted me since that night of fire at the nursery.

**SIMON**

Penny and Micah head out for takeout to give me “some alone time.” I wonder if that’s an American phrase. Micah’s a “quintessential American with British classicism and a stubbornly British heart,” according to Penny. (Even heartbroken, I still quote Penny loads.)

I can’t help but let my mind drift to what Baz is doing now. He’s so bloody perfect that he’s probably already deserted London, changed his phone number, and assumed a new identity.

**PENNY**

Micah decides on Nando’s, because it’s a short walk and the fastest possible choice for takeout. Plus, the chicken _is_ quite good. A bit rubbery for my taste, but both Micah and Simon love it. (Micah, because he’s American and he also enjoys atrocities like bacon donut burgers, and Simon, because he’s Simon.) 

It’s quiet out tonight, but possibly because of the raining. Barely anyone’s out, and it’s quite sweet, even given the circumstances, to just take a walk with Micah, hand in hand, though we’re both worrying over Simon.

We grab a hot chocolate for Simon; it was Micah’s idea. (Often, I hear Baz’s drawling in my head, _“You don’t need to romance my boyfriend, Bunce,”_ but until he comes back I’ll have to. Hot chocolate’s always been a comfort to Simon.

Mary and Morgana, I’m giving Baz a week. I’d told Simon just as much as he sniffled on the sofa and worked his way through a box of tissues and the cuffs on his shirt.

Baz’ll will come back.

He will.

**SIMON**

When Penny and Micah return home, I almost don’t hear them.

I’ve stopped crying (finally), but now my throat feels raw and my eyes must be swollen beyond belief. Baz probably didn’t shed a single tear, that tosser. Did he even feel anything when he left?

I know that I was the one who pushed him to leave, but he was the one pushing me to change. I can’t change. I’ll break, and I had to make him leave. I had to ask him to, but I just never thought he’d actually listen.

Baz never listens. Why is this when he chooses to listen?

I suppose he’s always been cruel.

Penny hesitantly approaches me and tells me that they’ve brought home Nando’s, which is a welcome surprise. Baz never gets us Nando’s. (He says that the chicken is too dry and chalky, and Penny actually agrees. Chicken is chicken to me, and I always drown my portion in peri-peri sauce so everything’s sopping wet.)

I don’t have it in me to eat much though, and I pick around the chicken, peas, and mash as Micah and Penny eat in silence.

Then Bowie’s “Heroes” blasts from my phone on the coffee table.

**PENNY**

When Simon’s phone rings, I leap up from my seat and practically cry with relief. It must be Baz! Calling to apologise, that’s for certain.

Simon jerks upwards, but it’s obvious as he forces himself to stay still in his chair. I feel an overwhelming urge to hug him then, because of all the disappointment he’s had to go through throughout his life at care homes and even during his time at Watford, the most Magickal place on Earth.

Micah makes an effort at conversation, “Nice ringtone. I’d have placed you as an Air Supply fan or something. I didn’t know you were into this stuff. It’s edgy and cool.”

If Baz were here, he’d refuse to acknowledge Micah’s music taste and call him “the American” for a month, guaranteed. But he’s not here.

I pick up the phone, and of course it’s Baz. Simon personalised this ringtone and everything.

As “Yes, we’re lovers” is being belted out, I quickly click “connect” and put it onto speaker for everyone’s benefit.

“Baz, you’d better have a good explanation for where you are and what you’ve done to Simon. I love you loads, but Simon and I have an unbreakable bond and I can’t help but suspect that you’d said something to him to drive us all nutters so you’d best come over and present yourself.”

There’s a coughing sound, hacking and wet, and I pause in the middle of my rant. Is Baz crying? I glance at Simon, and his shoulders are tense. He’s deliberately not looking at me or the phone.

“We have the bloodsucker. Unfortunately, we have business to attend to and the boy doesn’t sound like he’s got much time left. Let’s overestimate a bit and give you 48 hours. That should be plenty of time for a castaway mage and his half-breed sidekick.”

I don’t even feel anger. All I feel is shock, and there’s a loud whining. At first I think it’s Simon but I realize that it’s emitting from the cell phone. It’s Baz, in pain.

**SIMON**

The moment I hear the wailing, I stand up so quickly my dish flies across the table. My fork clatters on the ground, and I hear Micah swear.

Penny’s completely frozen, and all I can think of is Baz somewhere, waiting for me.

But does he want me there? Does he still want me?

**PENNY**

“Who are you? For whom do you work?” I demand into the phone.

There’s a crinkling sound, and I hear Baz’s hoarse shouting in the background, _“_ Paper beats rock! _They’ve nothing to do with this!_ Hear ye, hear ye! _I no longer have any affiliation with Simon Snow and Penelope Bunce! Take this up to the Old Families!_ Paper beats rock! _”_

_Paper beats rock._ Baz once told me about Nicodemus sharing that spell with him when they encountered a numpty swarm. I don’t hear any effect though; no crumbling of rocks can be heard, and I continue to detect Baz’s coughing.

Numpties. Has he been kidnapped by numpties again? 

Under normal circumstances, I’d call his Aunt Fiona just to have a good laugh because how proper that Baz has been taken by numpties for no less than two times.

But these aren’t normal circumstances. His coughing sounded wet with blood, and he’s obviously distracting them from us. He’s still protecting Simon. And me.

Simon’s hobbled over to my side, and so has Micah. Micah has an arm wound around my shoulders, and Simon has my hand and his phone in an unyielding grip as he begins shouting.

“Baz, Baz, Baz, it’s me, love. Where are you? I’m so sorry. Let me explain to you, I swear I’ll explain when you’re back where are you where can we find you to bring you back so that I can explain please give me a chance, I love-”

The call disconnects.

**BAZ**

I told them to stay away. My only hope now is that Simon believes I’ve truly left him. He’ll convince Bunce to not find me. Bunce will always listen to him. _They can’t know what’s happened, and who was truly behind both numpty attacks._

I can’t be saved, and my wand’s gone wonky. _Paper beats rock_ did no damage, and I can’t ascertain what’s wrong with my left leg again, except that it’s gone numb and when I reach towards it in the coffin I feel crusty material. Blood or dirt?

I wonder how long I will last. Without a working wand, even self-immolation spells won’t work. 

There’s of course another concern. Will I break under torture? How long will it take before I betray the World of Mages?

One thing’s for certain, at least. As long as I die thinking of Simon’s bronze curls and blue eyes, I’ll die charmed.

**SIMON**

Penny immediately bolts into my room, and I’m still too raw and empty from that phone call. From the way Baz was hurt and wheezing. From the way I didn’t even get to say the three words.

Penny wheels out the large blackboard from my room, scrawled all over with Baz’s LSE tutorial notes, and she draws up a quick table: she writes, “WHAT WE KNOW” and next to a dividing line, “WHAT WE DON’T KNOW.”

This is rational and calm. I can deal with this. This is familiar.

Penny hastily scratches, “Baz hurt,” “Baz kidnapped by numpties,” and “48-hour limit” under “WHAT WE KNOW” as Micah confusedly hurries to help erase Baz’s notes.

I’ve an urge to tell him to preserve some just in case, but that’s sodding stupid. Baz’ll be back. He has to come back.

Underneath “WHAT WE DON’T KNOW” are written “if Old Families know,” “Baz’s location,” and “who ordered the attack.” Penny’s hands falter and shake for a bit, but she clasps them (and the chalk) and turns around to face me.

“I’m alright, Pen. Baz will be, too.”

Her face crumples.

**PENNY**

I just can’t bear to watch Simon be the brave one. I know he felt scared. He’d begged into the phone, not for information but for Baz to wait for him.

That’s the sort of love that the numpties have failed to account for, and we can’t afford to lose hope.

But what type of numpties are immune to a sixth-year spell? I wipe away my tears so Simon can’t see, and turn back to the board. 

I quickly write “spells not working” underneath “WHAT WE KNOW” and immediately turn over to the other column to add “why Baz’s spells don’t work on numpties.”

We have to find Baz, or I fear that Simon can’t recover. He’ll blame himself, and the beginnings of this realisation are already etched all over his face.

We’ve 48 hours. We’ll find him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To clarify:  
> This week's chapter title "Rock, Chalk" equates to "Numpties galore, Penny uses the blackboard to begin planning an epic rescue."
> 
> I'm sorry I had to do this to Baz!
> 
> I did have a think and came to the conclusion that Baz would be the self-sacrificing type to opportunitize the break-up in order to save Simon and Penny. He's betting on Simon being truly over him. (Not because he’s a scheming bastard, though he is. Baz is a terrific boyfriend, even when broken up with, okay?)
> 
> Why didn't Simon get to say those three words? Disconnected call = tension, and I am sorry for the angst.
> 
> Next chapter will get a bit graphic but we'll also see more of Penny's scheming!


	5. Never Get Caught

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A search for Baz begins. Someone is introduced through a threatening video, and Simon remembers the Mage.

**SIMON**

It was Penny’s idea to begin re-tracing Baz’s steps, which is really up to how well we know him and where he’s likely to go post-breakup because according to Penny, “If  _ paper beats rock _ didn’t work for him, do you think it’s likely that a tracking spell will work?”

It got me thinking about how tracking spells might not even work for vampires, wayward magic or not. If hunting spells worked _ for _ but not  _ on  _ hunters, why would tracking spells work for Baz?

Then again, I’d managed in my suspicion (obsession) for him to track Baz with my wonky magic, Baz who tried really hard all through fifth year to hide his daily path in the Catacombs as he sought the next rat to drain for supper.

We head out the flat, all three of us with Micah trailing along. I lead the way through the nearby park where I know Baz goes to brood sometimes. We follow the winding footpath with stones too far apart (but not for Baz whenever we walked here, him having a nice stroll with his too-long legs and I jogging to catch up), and reach a clearing where a man in a green suit is sitting on a bench.

_ Our  _ bench. Our bench, where Baz and I shared curries, coffees, and kisses. Our bench that virtually no one knew about, one of the only spots in Central London where Baz could calmly polish down a meal and would reward me a snog outside, knowing no one would bother to go so deep into the park. Or so we thought.

The man’s fiddling with his cell, and his green suit looks dark and posh the way Baz made everything he wore look. I’m also reminded of the Mage and his omnipresent green cape. 

I’m torn between approaching the man to ask if he’s seen Baz, and I’m thinking about how I’d describe my freshly broken-up-with boyfriend: tall and pale, wearing a dark blue coat.

The words are almost out of my mouth when I quickly tear my eyes away because it isn’t a cell he’s holding. It’s a mirror, and I catch a glimpse of impossibly dark eyes boring into mine and a milky, pallid face.

The same paleness Baz has.

Why would the man be holding a mirror? Why did he look at me? Did he angle it towards us on purpose?

I realise that slung over the bench, wet with several leaves plastered to it, is the coat. Baz’s coat, which I bought for him. I know he’d never leave that coat, no matter how broken up we are.

Which means Baz might have been taken from here, and if it weren’t for me and my decision to get him the coat and his attachment to me  _ he might have been fine. _

I grab Penny’s hand roughly and jerk her out of the clearing, back where we came from, and I’m panicking.

“Baz’s coat. It was Baz’s coat, the one I gave him for Christmas, and it was on the bench. It must have rained, and that man is a vampire, I swear he is. What if he saw what happened to Baz? He made eye contact with me. He’s holding a mirror. What sort of bloke stares at a mirror and sits on a wet bench in a suit? Oh, Penny, what if he  _ did _ something to Baz?”

Penny hugs me, and Micah says that it might not even be Baz’s coat. Micah tells us to stay optimistic, which I’m sure is a state of being that Baz would have found to be repulsive and intrinsically American, and thinking about Baz makes me feel a torrent of anger, sadness, and unfairness.

Why is it that the moment I allow myself to take a break that he has to disappear? Is he doing this on purpose, or is the universe conspiring against me?

I yank on Penny’s hand and we dash back in through the trees, and I just about am damned sure that I’d shout the man down for answers, or at least forcefully inquire Baz’s whereabouts. But he’s not there. The man has left, but Baz’s coat is still on the bench.

“You said the man looked at you. You’re positive, Simon?” Penny asks me, and her eyes are steady. Worried, but steady nonetheless.

“Yes, I’m sure. He bloody stared at me, and he was holding a pocket mirror, Penny! Who brings a pocket mirror around?”

“The same type of man who wears a posh suit to the park, I guess,” Micah says with a chuckle, and Penny glares at him.

I rush over to the bench and take Baz’s coat in hand.

Then we leave.

We weave our way back out the park, and we try hitting the coat with tracking spells, but Penny was right; the coat has no use for our spells, and even  _ Show me going _ , which Micah insists is the best for crimes and ill-intentioned disappearances in America, does not work.

Micah gently suggests the Find My Phone feature I’d installed months ago when I first moved in with Penny and Baz had insisted that he put a tracker in my phone. I’d relented on the condition that I’d get to do the same for his.

So we do exactly that, and the tracker shows Baz’s location pinging near Southwark Bridge, on the South bank of the Thames.

_ What are you doing there, Baz? _

**NICODEMUS**

The phone rings when I least expect it, but I know it’s terrible news the moment I connect the call.

“What now?” I bark into the phone, and the slow, sandpapery drawl that I’d long banished from our nightclub answers back:

“I have the Pitch vampire, and now I have the Mage’s boy. Soon, I’ll have a whole new clan.”

“Why are you telling me this?” I hate that my voice betrays a slight tremor. I hate that the scotch I’d been nursing is slowly heating up in my hands, a side-effect of my Magick being stripped away. When I’m nervous, it shows.

“Consider this a fair warning. Send my regards to your fellows, dear friend.”

He ends the call.

It’s times like these when I wish I still had my fangs so I could properly rip into him. My face must show something because the other vamps tense beside me, stopping their game of billiards. I motion to them that everything’s alright, even when I know it won’t be.

Not when a vampire with magic has been kidnapped by another.

**PENNY**

As soon as I generously tip the cabbie for our speedy (but bumpy) ride and we slide right beside Southwark Bridge, Simon flies (metaphorically; his wings are no good when he’s twitchy and not focusing) out of the taxi and begins shouting for Baz.

Micah curses beside me and runs off after him.

“Simon! Shh! Someone could hear you. Whoever took Baz here wouldn’t greet us with open arms.”

I get out of the taxi just in time to see the two wandering around the bridge. Micah fires off a last-ditch spell at the jacket in an effort to conjure up a Magickal scent, or something.

It doesn’t work. I didn’t expect it to.

  
  


Not because Micah isn’t a great mage, because he’s actually brilliant. Our whole sodding plan had been based off of tracking spells, all of which had been blocked due to Baz’s current situation. For which we currently hold no answers, or even clues.

“Baz isn’t here! There’s nothing of his here, I don’t think, but his phone must be!” Simon’s voice carries along the wind.

I stoop over as I head for the lower end of the bridge, where a faint light is glowing, just to realise that it’s only a lamp that someone had probably abandoned some time ago. Then I see it. A black iPhone. Baz’s.

I try to unlock it, but it needs a thumbprint. Sodding fancy prick, buying expensive phones that I can’t even attempt to unlock using predictable numerical patterns.

“Simon, Micah, over here! I found something!”

They come running, and Simon reaches me first, so I frantically thrust the phone into his hands.

“Simon, why didn’t you tell Baz to set up a password as well? Mine’s got a fingerprint recognition system as well as a passcode for backup, what sort of posh prat doesn’t have a backup plan for his friends when he’s been charted off in the middle of bloody London by a pack of numpties?”

Simon silently presses the phone back in my hands, and I blink. It’s unlocked.

“How?” I say.

“Oh, while you were off ranting about London and King and Queen I unlocked it. Baz had me input my fingerprint as well.”

Micah bursts out laughing, and a slow smile fills up Simon’s face.

Cheeky bastard.

**SIMON**

The phone opens up to the home screen, where a photo of a scone greets us. 

Penny snorts a laugh, “Baz loves you, Simon. Why else would he possibly set the greatest love of your life as his home screen?” I know why. I remember why.

I remember a slow afternoon of baking with Baz, and getting a tray of fresh scones out of the oven and trying to eat the ugliest, most deformed and misshapen one before Baz can tease me about the failed scone with its burnt, blackish egg wash and cherries.

Baz had caught me literally red-handed with slight burns and ready to singe off my tongue.

“Snow, what’re you doing? Get that out of your mouth! Don’t burn yourself now.”

I’d stuck out my tongue, and he’d taken a photo of me with the scone.

I called him a big softie afterwards and he cropped me out of the picture in response (as a joke, of course, I think), and set the shot of the scone with my one hand as his home screen background.

He may have had too much wine that afternoon, and I too many scones after they all cooled down.

The phone flashes and disturbs my thoughts. This is not a time for reminiscing.

The phone displays a video that automatically plays, and the green-suited man that I saw  _ just a few hours before  _ begins to speak. I stop listening and turn away into Penny’s arms. Micah holds the phone, and I feel a dry, sucking emptiness I hadn’t felt since the Humdrum.

It’s a message for me, the Mage’s boy. Foster son, foster weapon. Backfired atomic bomb.

It’s a message for us.

**BAZ**

Blood in a plastic cup again, but this time there’s also solid, real food. Cold and stale Big Macs, but still food.

I hope Simon and Penny stay away. They can’t see me like this, practically decomposing in a freezing coffin. I spend hours transitioning from melancholic to full-fledged panicking as my claustrophobia returns in odd hours, and every time the numpties slide open the lid I try to claw my way out but my leg’s gone wonky and stiff again. No amount of magic would work to fix this bloody thing now, especially after a green-clad Mage-wanna-be threw me out of the coffin and stomped all over me, demanding where Simon is.

I didn’t have the heart to tell him that I wouldn’t know, that I’d been broken up with, and my silence had him kicking me bloody.

He’d ripped through my trouser pockets and taken my phone, scoffing about the scone after viciously pressing my thumb in, and ordered the numpties to roll me back into the prison of a coffin.

I screamed my throat raw, but I’m silent now.

Better to not fight, to let him realise that there isn’t any connection to Simon that he can conjure up anymore.

That I’m long gone in Simon’s eyes, and beyond saving. Beyond love now, in a place of darkness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was a bit later than usual; sorry about that!
> 
> Next up: we get to know more about our green-clad villain.


	6. Smarts, Dark, Dangerous

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fiona takes an important phone call, and yells at Simon. Penny comes to the rescue, and Nicodemus offers his help. Baz learns several things.

**FIONA**

It’s the dead of the night (not the spell, the time) when I pick up my phone. I’ve a wicked hangover and I’m knackered beyond belief, and I’d staggered home off my tits drunk. Regardless, I snatch the phone from my bedside table once I see who’s ringing.

Nico.

Nicodemus Petty. We called him Nico, and his sister the goatherd Ebb, who last I’ve heard had suddenly become a saintlike figure that the Watford student body and Baz alike cannot shut up about.

But she did save Natasha’s son, so I owe her one.

And I’ve always owed Nico one. I told him that I’ve belonged to him from the start.

“Fiona speaking,” I say, trying to keep my voice from trembling, though it’s useless. My hand is shaking, and the phone is threatening to slip from my grasp.

“Fi. It’s Nico, and I have something to tell you. I- I don’t know exactly how to say this, but when’s the last you’ve seen Basilton? Your nephew?”

“Nico, you’d better have a sparklingly good reason to be calling me at this time right now to chat me up about my dead sister’s nephew. The last I heard from you was from him! The two of you had gone galloping all over London and Watford like two pale, broody knights in shining suits.”

He laughs quietly on the other end. “Fi, I need you to not panic when I say that Baz has been missing.”  
  


“Missing? I only spoke to him a day ago! Granted, it was over text, and he was asking about Keynes and sharing powerpoint slides from a lecture for some bollocks reason. Look, I’m very tired, very hungover, and would greatly appreciate this if we talk tomorrow-”

“Fiona, you’re not listening to me. Baz has been missing. It’s good that you two spoke two days ago, but can you share the slides to me, or do you know where he was last seen?”

“Like hell I’d tell you! You know I can’t tell you everything. Not now. Not after-”

Not after he’d made it exceedingly clear that he didn’t want anything to do with the World of Mages. With Watford. With me. Not after he’d vanished and Turned into a creature of the night.

There’s a deep sigh, and he speaks after a long pause. “Please. There’s someone out there, and he’s contacted me and shown his hand. He has Baz, and I’d like your help.”

“Who?” I growl, “And what sodding idiot calls you instead of me? When Baz was kidnapped by the numpties, they called me!”

“Fiona, Baz and I took care of the numpties last time. We’re dealing with someone of an entirely different league. He’s dangerous, and I need your help. We’ll call a truce and do this together. For Baz.”

“Baz goes to LSE, and he’s been living in the dorms.” Let him know that I will cooperate, but not for his good. I’m doing this for Baz. For Natasha.

“Months ago, the Chosen One and Baz seemed quite close. Will Snow have information?”

“Simon bloody Snow! They’re boyfriends now, so yes.”

I don’t know if Baz would have liked all of London’s vampires to know, but it just sort of slipped out. 

I hear Nico yelling into the phone with surprise, and I already know I won’t be getting anymore sleep tonight.

**SIMON**

I’ve sobbed my throat raw when Penny creaks open my bedroom door early in the morning and plops down on my bed with a mug of peppermint tea.

I take it gratefully and start sipping, letting the coolness soothe my throat as the hot liquid settles my stomach.

“It’s really all my fault, isn’t it? If I hadn’t been acting out, if only I’d asked him to bake scones with me or something instead of being difficult with a conversation that we needed to have anyway-- oh, God, Penny what if he’d stayed in after breakfast? Baz would have been okay. Baz would be safe now. It’s all my fault.”

Penny winds an arm around me and starts rubbing my shoulders, just above the wings, which always felt good when Baz did it, with some posh ointment rubbed all over in circles. “It’s okay. It’s not your fault. It’s never your fault. How could it be? If you’d known-- if anyone had known that this would happen-- of course Baz would go out like that.”

“But I drove him away! I asked him for an out, and he took it. Why did he take it, why? Penny, I never thought he’d actually just leave.”

“Shh. Baz is an idiot for leaving you, okay? But he’ll be back. He always comes back, and we’ll definitely find him.”

“I didn’t think he’d actually leave. I thought he’d stay, like he always have!”

“He loves you, Si, and he’ll do anything you tell him to. He’ll come back because he knows you want him to. He needs you, too.”

I turn into her chest and cry, and I think of Baz, cold and cornered in an unfamiliar, dangerous place with the man in the dark green suit. Are they feeding him enough? Both food and blood? Is he scared?

Does Baz blame me for what happened? For the break-up, the late nights of quiet anxiety and the piercing ones where I wake up screaming from nightmares of Hampshire burning, of that sucking feeling in Lancashire, of the disappointment that the Mage’s eyes betrayed when I’d killed him?

All I do is hurt those who love me.

I had to make him go away, but even that has attracted danger. I had to push him out so he wouldn’t be stuck. So he wouldn’t be burdened with all this.

And now he’s in enemy hands, and I’m the failure I’ve always been-- a falsified weapon under the Mage, the cause of the Insidious Humdrum, and the boy who killed his foster father and burned down his boyfriend’s ancestral home.

Is Baz thinking of me?

Does he hate me now?

**PENNY**

Three more hours by Simon’s bed, five more mugs of hot tea, and two slabs of toast that Micah made later, Simon’s phone rings, and I spring up to take it.

The caller ID shows Fiona, who is always fun to talk to because she and I are the only ones allowed to make fun of Baz. But now, with Baz gone and Simon and Baz broken up, what do we even tell her?

I dash back into the room. “Psst, Simon! It’s Fiona! Do I pick up?”  
  


“Let it ring. She can’t see me like this and she can’t know about Baz. It’ll break her.”

“But we have to tell her! And the Pitch family has resources and connections. She can save Baz!”

Simon flops down back into the pillows and groans, then holds out a hand, beckoning for the phone. I toss it to him.

He barely raises the phone to his ear when the shrieking begins, and it doesn’t even take the speakerphone for me to hear Fiona loud and clear.

“Why didn’t you tell me that Baz was gone, you punk? You must have known about this. Christ, you are in a relationship and you two are practically married. From the moment you strutted into the Pitch home you have been one of us, so act like it, you cock! Tell us everything. I will gut you and feed you to the Thames merwolves if you don’t.”

Simon turns an alarming shade of green, and I decide to intervene before more death threats come.

“Hi, Fiona,” I shout from across the room, “Can you start from the beginning? How did you find out about this? And yes, Simon did know. We were trying to find Baz yesterday, and we’ve heard from the kidnapper.”

“Seen him, too,” Simon mutters.

“You’ve seen Alastair Bracknell?” the phone booms.

Simon and I turn to look at each other, and he mouths, _who?_ , and draws a question mark with his pointer finger in the air.

I roll my eyes and mouth back, _green suit man_.

_Oh_ , he mouths, and we hear Fiona bellowing. “Hello? Chosen One, I’m talking to you. Do you have eyes on Bracknell?”

“We ran into him yesterday at the park by my flat. Green suit, pale skin, dark eyes, scarecrow hair, as per Simon's description. We’d been searching for Baz, and Simon found Baz’s blue coat right beside him on a bench. He’s a vampire, right?”

  
  


“Yes. I heard from Nicodemus Petty last night. Alastair Bracknell was one of his, and he’d gone rogue a while back, way before any of you were born. Apparently he’d betrayed Nico’s clan to the Mage, and Nico lost a lot of property in Central London. Nico got a message yesterday saying that Bracknell has Baz and is about to make a move on Simon.”

Simon’s back has stiffened beside me, and I grab the phone from him.

“He’s threatening Simon now? Does Nicodemus know more? Can he help?”

“Nico will help. I made him swear his pitiful life on it.”  
  


“We have more information, too. Yesterday, in the afternoon, we received a video from Bracknell, and we thought Baz was kept under a bridge by the Thames but we checked and he wasn’t. We found his phone there in Southwark Bridge, though.”

Simon chimes in, “Do you think Nicodemus and his clan could ask around, and maybe track Bracknell or Baz down?”

“He’ll find Baz first. I’ve told him that Baz is our very first priority, and there’s no way we’re paying any ransoms. Find Baz, find Bracknell.”

“But if they get in touch with us, and they said they would, shouldn’t we pay up to keep Baz safe?”

“Pitches don’t pay ransoms,” Fiona and Simon say at the same time.

Mary and Morgana.

**BAZ**

It’s always so cold and dark. When I get home ( _if_ I get home) I’ll sleep with the lights on and the blankets piled up, now that I don’t have Simon. He’s always radiated warmth, but now that warmth is mine no more. 

The hunger and the fear have brought back the most dear hallucinations. I have bronze curls and blue eyes at the back of my eyelids, keeping me company when the numpties drag me out to force feed blood and scraps of food. I have Simon’s voice in my head whenever my ears start ringing from the blows that the other vampire delivers from time to time.

He tells me that his name is Bracknell. Alastair Bracknell.

He tells me that he worked for the Mage.

He tells me that he’d perverted magick for Davy to bring the Chosen One to the World of Mages.

He tells me that he is the creator of the Humdrum.

He tells me that he knows the truth about Simon’s family.

He tells me that he’ll finish me before I can tell Simon.

Let him dream, because I won’t be able to see Simon. Simon won’t come by this time. Not after I pushed and pushed and he snapped and asked me to leave.

I never should have left you, Simon, but at least you are safe without me.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Watch out for another chapter this week-- I did promise a double-chapter week!
> 
> Next up: we learn more about Alastair Bracknell (I usually take a long time to warm up to original characters, but Alastair emerged in my mind fully-fledged in a green suit; a more detailed description of his appearances and motives will follow soon).
> 
> As always, all comments and suggestions are welcome!


	7. Right From the Start

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alastair Bracknell tells his story.

**ALASTAIR**

In the beginning it was just me.

They’d found me on the stoop, they said, and raised me. Cared for me like one of their own.

Mages never throw away their children. They don’t abandon magic, ever. They adore their children and fill their lives with magic, in even the most mundane of activities.

But no one ever speaks of the unspeakable, the infertility, the weeks to Magickal doctors and later Normal clinics that provided _services_. Services that simply didn’t work for Arthur and Peggy Bracknell, who’d desperately wanted children and took the first crying, lost baby swaddled in rages at a care home that simply didn’t qualify as any home.

The Bracknells were respectable, lovely, decent people. Together, we were a family, despite what the rumours and the whispers said, despite the verbal attacks that Peggy would get when going to the shop for milk and beans and despite the way Arthur was repeatedly denied a promotion at the job. Infertility wasn’t something magic could explain, so the World of Mages closed its doors on them, and on me.

That didn’t stop them from adjusting to Normal life just fine: Peggy was the sort of doting neighbourhood auntie who’d always have a pot of tea just ready for any one who happened to pop in for a quick kipper. Arthur was a bank manager who’d stowed away sacks of leprechaun’s gold in the attic. He was burly but quiet, a calming presence with a big laugh whenever you told a good joke. Chances were that Peggy wouldn’t find those jokes amusing at all, and would gently hit me up the head whenever I told one to give Arthur a giggle by the fireplace, which always burnt brightly whenever there were dinner guests or whenever we had board games laid out on the hardwood floors.

Arthur and Peggy took me in before I knew anything about the world, and taught me everything I had to know about Normal life, thinking that I didn’t have magic. That I was Normal, or perhaps discard without magic who’d been born to unloving, magic-hungry parents. Regardless, I didn’t have magic. I wonder if they sometimes wished I did, when the children around them, in the neighbourhoods, were growing up to hold a wand, speak the first-year spells, and don the Watford purple and green, spelling their boater hats on neat and tidy, while their hard-won son was home-schooled and spoke with a lasting lisp.

The lisp went away when I was sixteen. The fangs came, and the thirst did, too.

I remember the writhing, the shrieking, and the pangs that came and went. I remember the digging feeling in my mouth, and my cheeks feeling fuller and my teeth glinting in the harsh nightlight. I remember their knocking on my bedroom door, and my shouting at them to just go away, to save themselves, to leave before it became clear what I was about to become.

They loved me. They’d made up their mind, or maybe they didn’t know. Didn’t know that they’d cared for a vampire, a changeling at birth. Because it was true. Mages never abandon their children. 

Vampires do.

They were mages through and through, and they were rooted to that house, to the walls Arthur had built and the floors Peggy had chosen, which I’d scratched my nails bleeding to the quick as the transformation took its form. 

They never left me.

Arthur and Peggy Bracknell were never found, and I woke up one morning with my shirtfront, my crisp and freshly ironed shirt with my name embroidered in the front pocket by me mum, completely drenched with blood and guilt.

\--

Davy found me, he’s said, and cared for me along with Lucy. He’d brought me to Nicodemus Pitch, a vampire who had left the World of Mages to seek superhuman powers and immortality. In his eyes, it was a gift. I’d just woken up with my parents drained in front of me. Vampirism was a curse, and magic had taken my parents.

The World of Mages had pushed them out and kept them uninformed. The World of Mages had made them, and me, ignorant of the dangers of creatures of the night. The World of Mages was not there for them to fall back on, so they stayed with me.

The World of Mages took them away from magic.

The World of Mages _took them away from me_.

Nicodemus was kind enough, I suppose, and taught me to control the hunger and the thirst and how to avoid arrogant Mages and unknowing Normals who smoke. He taught me to be afraid of a lit fag, when I’d just left a home with a massive fireplace that I’d cuddled up next to for the majority of my childhood. He taught me to navigate vampirism, from the logistics of hunting to the risks of flammability.

If Nicodemus was a fun (albeit discreet and mysterious) uncle, Davy and Lucy were my new foster parents.

Davy and Lucy Salisbury were mages themselves, and also social outcasts from the elitists who’d held Watford and the Coven all to themselves.

Davy called himself a thinker and Lucy called him “my dearest revolutionary.” They tried to get me to call them Mum and Dad but I couldn’t. The Bracknells were my family, and Davy and Lucy were a great help but in no way my parents. They were yet another couple who’d been misunderstood by the World of Mages and saw an outcast who’d needed shelter and safety.

I think Davy had known well fully-- after all, he’d found me that day, my clothes painted crimson and my face covered in tear tracks-- that I’d murdered my parents. I don’t know if he ever told Lucy.

All I know is that when Davy became more of a fanatic of blood rituals and I’d excused myself whenever there was too much pig’s blood in the fridge,Lucy had seemed worried and on the verge of leaving him. She’d told me herself, actually, when we were tending to the chickens in the small backyard filled with the loveliest flowers.

“I’m worried about Davy, Alastair. He’s not been himself, and he’s convinced he can solve an unsolved prophecy, make it true. He told me last night that he wanted a baby.”

I don’t think it’s ever good news if Lucy tells me about something Davy did. “What did you say?”

She’d bit her lip red (no blood, thankfully, or I would have run miles away from our little cottage in Lancashire) as she’d looked back up at me, silent.

“What did you say, Lucy?” I pressed on, and she broke.

“I said yes. I said yes, and I’m going to love this child no matter what happens. No matter what the candles and the blood and the chanting does. I will make sure my child is loved.”

\--

A week, exactly a week, later, Davy approaches me and tells me of an opportunity to give me magic.

He not so much offers me magic as he presses me to take it.

“It has to be done,” he says, “It’s the key to completing the ritual. To make the Chosen One, to bring so much magic into the world, I’ll have to first give magic to one who has never lived a life with it.”

“Now, Davy-” I’d started.

“You never grew up with magic. Your parents were mages, but they were adoptive parents who were pushed out of the World of Mages, weren’t they? You must have always wanted magic. This is the perfect opportunity for you to get it, and for me to create this child. You have to say yes, Alastair. This is your calling, and this child will be mine.”

When I told Lucy later about what I’d done, she’d asked me what I’d said to Davy.

“I said yes. Lucy, I told Davy that I’d do it. I said yes.”

\--

They named him Simon Oliver Snow Salisbury. Davy called him “the Chosen One” while Lucy called him “my rosebud boy.” I called him “the baby.” All three of us adored him, or so I thought.

\--

No one ever found Lucy. Our backyard was ridded of the flowers that she’d painstakingly planted, and the dirt was disturbed. A shallow grave was dug, and Davy told me that I had to leave. He told me to never say anything of the day.

I went with Nicodemus. I joined his clan, and I was old enough-- legally an adult and already able to do even the advanced spells under Davy’s tutelage.

I didn’t know what had happened to the baby, to Simon Oliver Snow Salisbury, with his freckles, blue eyes, and blond tufts of hair.

\--

In the end, a vampire with magic is just too dangerous, to both vampires and mages alike. Nicodemus turned me away after a long ride of disappointing him whenever attacking mages late at night became less and less funny as a practical joke. (I never targeted Normals. I was raised under Normal life, and Normals I will respect, but the mages, those bastards turned my parents away and abandoned my family.)

When Nicodemus told me to scram, I’d tracked Davy down again. He’d offered me a job because Nicodemus had turned it down.

It was simple. Break into the Watford nursery and scare some people. It was the heart of the World of Mages, so of course I said yes.

I entered with a few scroungers like meself from the streets, and between my magic and their vampire strength and speed, it was no challenge. I’d personally bit Headmistress Pitch. I’d moved away when he set herself alight with a **_Tyger tyger burning bright_ ** and abandoned her son to navigate vampirism.

We’d left the child. Enough damage had been done, and the Pitch boy was about to grow up like me. The world was in balance again, and I’d set things straight.

A mage family ruined for another. A vampire boy to live this life for another.

I’d later heard that Davy was made Headmaster of Watford, Commander of the Mage’s Men, and the Mage of the World of Mages. I’d later heard that Simon Snow was a surprise prophecy filler and the Mage was made his guardian. I knew that I’d created the Humdrum alongside Davy when I’d taken magic from the finite supply that is the world, ripped through with holes that Simon Snow and _I alike_ had made throughout the years. I’d debated whether to let the truth come to light. Better not for a while. Riling people up has always been interesting.

I suppose Davy got what he wanted as the Mage and reunited with his son who’d bounced around care homes, and I know I did get what I wanted as well, ever since that fateful night in the nursery. For a while. 

I had to do a lot more to avenge the Bracknells.

\--

When the news of the Chosen One dating the Pitch boy came to light, I’d practically shouted with glee. Davy had manipulated and silenced me. He given me a second family only to kill off Lucy. The baby had grown up to destroy him, and he deserved it all. Simon Snow had lost his magic filling the holes that we’d both created, and I am the one left standing after it all.

This is finally my time now. This is my chance to keep the Bracknells’ memory alive, to destroy the World of Mages and eliminate the Mage’s legacy and the other child who’d gotten away from the Mage’s plans.

That Pitch boy is not the only vampire with magic, and I’ve been waiting for quite some time.

I told him my story of course, because how could I resist? I’ve always loved a touch of the dramatic.

I told him about how I’ll ruin him. I’d gone to the park just to sight up and spook the Chosen One.

When it comes to the World of Mages, I will not hesitate to destroy it, and I will be _the one to bring its fall_. I am Alastair Bracknell, and this is my story.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Phew! Now that was probably one of the simultaneously easiest and hardest chapters to plow through; I'd written this in one go and I hope I did this character some justice.
> 
> Alastair first appeared in my mind as this mysterious, green-suited villain, and I just knew that he had to be connected to the Mage and to Simon in some way.
> 
> As always, all comments and suggestions are welcome, and stay tuned for next week's chapter, where we hear more from Baz!


	8. From Crazy to Calm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A study in mental standings.
> 
> We hear heartbreaking things from both Simon and Baz.
> 
> (Mentions of torture ahead, but nothing graphic. Things will be graphic in the next chapter though.)

**SIMON**

“Simon. Psst. Simon. Si!”

“Yeah? Sorry, sorry.”

“You know it’s mildly worrying when you sit on a sofa and stare blankly at the wall right?”

“Was just thinking about,” I say, fidgeting with a piece of lint in my hands, knowing that if Baz were still here and if we were alright he would hold my hands in place and rub his thumb across them soothingly, “things. Um, things. Baz.”

Penny carries on, “Besides, Micah asked twice if you want any spaghetti. He made some, along with sausages because he said he couldn’t find decent hotdogs around here. I guess they eat superior neon red processed meat in America.”

She giggles herself and it takes me a while to register the fact that they’re already both on the tiny table where Baz had confronted me about getting a Magickal therapist. My stomach growls loudly, and I realise that in the days following Baz’s disappearance, I haven’t eaten much. 

Penny has red sauce all over her lips and Micah’s offering her a tissue.

I’m a messy eater too, but red sauce around the mouth makes me think not of nonexistent table manners (don’t tell Penny I thought that; she actually has quite good table manners while Baz’s are exquisite and unquestionably excellent) but of Baz, somewhere, with blood in his mouth.

Are they feeding him properly? The captors?

I’m no longer hungry, and I say just that, turning to the TV and flicking it on.

“Right, suit yourself, man. But let us know if you get hungry later. You should eat something,” Micah says.

Penny chimes in, “At your own time, Si, but know that Baz would want you to take better care of yourself.”

BBC News comes on, and there’s a feature story that I’ve seen a few days before, of a Normal that was abducted. A young teenage male, last seen on a night out with friends, who’d noted that he was clearly drunk and stumbling around when he left the pub for a taxi. “Barely coherent, he was,” said an interviewed bloke on TV.

I wonder if Fiona and Nicodemus really can get Baz back.

I wonder if our magic makes us closed off from the world, unable to initiate resources that the Normals have.

We have our own policing and government system under the Mage and Coven, but we have nothing of resemblance to a fully fledged TV or online news source specifically for abduction cases like Baz’s.

How long does Baz have? What are Penny and Micah doing, having dinner and laughing softly when Baz is feeling scared and lost somewhere, broken up with and broken? I stopped him saying those three words. I stopped him staying, and now he’s gone and our only hope is a mage who _chose_ to become a vampire. Nicodemus was the one who let Bracknell go in the first place. And now Bracknell has Baz.

**PENNY**

I think Micah can sense that I’m not feeling very up to it. Dinner, I mean. I’ve not been speaking much all day, and I muster all the energy I can to making Simon eat, or at least attempting to; Baz, if he ever comes back (he will), will no doubt slaughter me if he sees Simon in his current state, thinner and face growing gaunt with hunger. I know I felt like stabbing the Mage and dumping his body in the moat for the Watford merwolves whenever Simon returned starving after a summer hopping in a rundown care home.

Micah’s trying his best to deal with the situation, and I love him for it. I just hope that Baz makes it back soon.

Our current plan is to have Nicodemus snuff Bracknell out. Fiona says he’s our best bet because of his skillset and annoying charm. I say that he’s our only option, and his clan better move fast to track Bracknell, and in turn, Baz, down before it’s too late.

(I think Fiona might be mooning over him, over “Nico.” I don’t tell her this, for fear that she might cease helping us find Baz. He’s her nephew and all, but hearing “Pitches don’t pay ransoms” does teach one a lesson on the state of familial love in the Pitch household. It’s not that Fiona and Baz don’t love each other; they bloody well do. I think they’re all just emotionally constipated, which confuses me at best.)

I glance over at Simon, who’s staring into blank space. He hasn’t moved from his spot on the sofa for at least three hours now, not even to use the washroom, and that scares me.

I just about pick up a strand of spaghetti (or as Baz, that arrogant posh prick, would say, a “spaghetto”) and hurl it across the dining room at Simon when my phone rings. It’s Fiona.

(I never gave her my number, but I’m not surprised. She has her ways, and both Baz and Simon trust her, so I suppose one of them broke and handed over my cell number.)

“Hi Fiona,” I begin tentatively.

She wastes no time to catch her breath. “First thing: Nico says he’s already sent out his clan. He’s briefed them on Bracknell, though he says that they all know what a danger he is already, and apparently Bracknell was a very old friend of theirs. But anyway.”

I don’t know what to say, so I stay silent.

“Penelope Bunce, listen to me, I know what you’re thinking, and no Nico did not tell them about Baz. They know to find Bracknell, but I don’t trust them enough to hand over the fact that the Pitch heir is missing. I’ve a feeling that something bigger is happening here. No one would kidnap the same person twice. Not a word about this escapes, you hear me? We need to keep this airtight, and Baz’s disappearance is now only yours and mine, and Simon and Nico’s business.”

“I told Micah, but he knows how serious this is. We’ll stop at nothing until we find Baz.”

“Good. Now run off and tell the little American that if he blabs about this, Baz may well be gone.”

Honestly, sometimes the resemblance between Baz and Fiona is stunningly uncanny.

“Got it. Fiona, we’ll find Baz, right? Nicodemus will try his best?”

“That I give my word.”

There’s a lull in our conversation as Simon suddenly gets up from his seat and strides over to me. There are fresh tear tracks on his face as he roughly takes the phone from me.

“Fiona. There’s something you need to know. Baz might resist being found.”

**SIMON**

She needs to hear this, because no one else knows Baz as well as I do.

“Baz resisting? What are you going on about?” Fiona’s voice suddenly softens, “Oh, Boyo, how are you holding up?”

“Not well.” 

As I answer, Penny’s yelling by my ear, probably hoping that her voice transmits into the phone, “Fiona, he’s not been eating and this is the first time he’s stood up from the sofa today! He needs to eat and sleep, tell him that!”

I continue, “But Fiona you have to know this. You should tell Nicodemus that Baz’s magic is off, and that he might . . .”

I trail off when I realize that Penny’s put a hand on my shoulder and rubbing circles the way Baz does whenever I feel distressed, and I just about lose it.

I start crying again, and my voice comes in heaving gasps, in that strange staccato way that almost sounds like the new piece that Baz had been practicing. “I’m sorry, Fiona, it’s just that he might have given up. He might not want to come home, and it’s all my fault.” 

“What the bloody hell are you on? Simon, what’s happened?”

“I broke up with him.”

“Ah, damn.”

**PENNY**

It breaks my heart to hear and see Simon like this.

It breaks my heart to hear Fiona cursing from the other end, creative in her choice of words and clearly frustrated. Yet I know that Simon needs someone to reassure him that everything will be okay, that Baz will come home, that Baz definitely wants to come home, that Baz will always forgive him because he’s the “sodding sentimental sort,” and that Baz will always, always love him because he’s the “again, once more, are you listening, Chosen One? He is the sodding sentimental sort who will always choose you because you are his chosen one, like it or not. We Pitches only fall in love once.”

(I think she’s talking about Nicodemus. Is she talking about Nicodemus? Would it help us if Nicodemus felt the same way?)

(I ultimately decide that now is not the time to dwell on a Pitch romance other than Simon and Baz’s.)

It breaks my heart to watch Simon slowly unravel, but it lifts all our spirits when Fiona forcefully injects optimism into us and Micah walks over to give a very American “group hug” while Fiona is still on the call, grumpy when Micah calls out, “I hope the hug was received!”

\--

**BAZ**

When it’s quiet in the coffin, I struggle with the lingering claustrophobia that I’ve felt since the last kidnap, which Bracknell has cheerfully let me know was his doing as he laid the blows on me during our last session.

He calls the beatings “our friendly chats.” I kindly tell him to fuck off whenever he talks to me, and then I shut up immediately as he reaches for his tools.

It’s always painful, but not as heartbreaking as the images of Simon that visit me when I’m locked in the coffin, safe from Bracknell’s hitting but not from the memories of Simon, teeth bared and fists by his side, angry and sad and telling me to leave, leave, leave.

To give him space. To give him an out. To get out of his life and never come back again.

I wonder if Bracknell’s contacted anyone. I hope he’s only told my family. No damage there. Pitches don’t pay ransoms, and the only one to cry upon the news of my death will be Daphne. Father’s voice will shake, but he won’t weep. Fiona will play sad rock anthems, I predict.

And Simon won’t be there to hear the news if I do die here.

I don’t think that Bracknell will ask for a ransom or anything, though. He’s told me that he wants to play around with me to get to Simon. I wonder if I’m bait. I don’t let him know that Simon and I are no longer together, and that he won’t be able to lure the Chosen One out for a “friendly chat.”

It’s times like these, when I find myself breathing evenly in the darkness, that I allow myself to reflect and think of how I possibly managed to fuck this all up with Simon.

Simon’s always gushed about his love for orderly lists in his mind, so I write one up for myself (without a single mention of scones).

1\. Simon was clearly hurting, and I should have been kinder.

a) Simon had lost his magic, and that’s a cruel thing to have to go through alone. So I shouldn’t have made him feel alone.

b) Maybe we could have started talking about this earlier. I made the mistake of forcing everything onto him at once.

c) We never discussed Ebb and the Mage. It obviously pained Simon a lot and I wasn’t paying enough attention. I’d been selfish when I shouldn’t have been.

2\. Simon’s stress-baking was a way to force predictability into his life.

a) I’d been busying myself off in uni when I could have easily fit in more private time to spend with Simon. Maybe go on more walks in the park or something. Or bake with him, anything that would have made him feel grounded and safe.

b) Penny’s a great friend to him but she’s not always home, which I can’t possibly blame her for; I should have been there at the flat whenever she’s off at work.

c) Simon had experienced real trauma throughout his time at Watford, and the Mage was the father figure (a shitty one who’d turned out to be his biological father, as Bracknell had told me, grinning, and telling me everything about Simon’s name and childhood) he’d clung onto despite all the violence and the killing around him. I could have spoken to him instead of having a row about it.

3\. Simon’s attempt to “feel warm again” had nearly burnt off a layer of skin, and I should have really talked with him. Self-harm should be addressed cautiously and dealt with, not ignored. He scared Penny and us shitless. He really did. But we should have been there for him.

a) I think I’m not great at making lists. I’d already mentioned scones despite telling myself that there was no way that I would.

b) I think all this comes back to the fact that I should have spoken with him and not just to him.

c) I think Simon needed comfort and a friend as well as a boyfriend, and I struggled to be both for him.

d) I think I was a shitty, terrible boyfriend.

e) I think I might actually be killed here, and I won’t have the chance to talk with him properly about the Mage, Ebb, his mother, Bracknell, Nicodemus, and everything. I probably won’t have the chance to tell him I love him and I’ll always be there for him even when I’m gone.

f) I think I might actually die if the “friendly chats” continue onwards, vampire healing or not.

g) I’ve lost track of time because it’s always dark, except when the “friendly chats” commence.

h) I can’t let myself think about them as “friendly chats.” They’re torture sessions, completely with waterboarding and flogging.

i) There’s always the pain, and I cling onto the memories for fear that they’ll be gone soon.

j) I miss home.

k) I love Simon Oliver Snow Salisbury, and he doesn’t even know now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next chapter will have a quite explicit torture (in the sense of descriptions of violence and pain) scene, so skip the first part (from Baz's perspective) if you don't feel comfortable with it.
> 
> Sorry for the delay, but I've been a tad bit busy. Don't worry though, next chapter will be up in a few days (before next week, I promise).
> 
> As always, I hope you enjoyed this, and comments and suggestions are welcome!


	9. In the Dusk and the Dawn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (Kind of) explicit torture scene ahead!
> 
> Skip the first half of the chapter if you would prefer not to read what Bracknell does to Baz.
> 
> Here's the actual summary: Baz gets a visit from his captors and Simon can't sleep in London.

**BAZ**

It always starts when the world around me jolts and crashes, and light comes pouring into the coffin in an utterly unpleasant manner as the lid cracks open.

I always confuse myself with blind hope, thinking every time that  _ this must be it, Simon’s come to save me, he always does, I’m getting out of here, I’ve always known he’d come _ and just as quickly forcing the thoughts down because  _ he isn’t coming and we’ve broken up and I might as well be dead to him _ .

It always starts with the rapid shaking, but it’s the laughter that breaks me, because it’s never a rescue mission. Rescue missions don’t start with cruel, manic chortling as the coffin shakes in the dark.

Torture sessions (“friendly chats”) do.

“Sun’s just gone down. The dusk sky’s a pretty cascade of blue, but you wouldn’t know, would’ya? Not when you’re cooped up in this silly box. The numpties and I put you in one last time for Davy’s pleasure, so I thought a trip down memory lane would be sweet. Nice gesture, innit?”

Bracknell’s voice cuts through the stuffy air in the room. I think this used to be a meat locker. Convenient for them, I suppose. Smells like it, anyway, and there are blood spatters everywhere, on the walls, the door, and the single small tinted window that makes it difficult to see what's going on outside of this room. I think I'm being held underground. 

Bracknell continues when I don’t answer. “I let you sleep the whole morning and afternoon, so in a way you should thank me.” He kicks the side of the coffin and I jolt. “If the whole world thinks we vampires only start moving at night, we might as well. Now, shall we?” He lifts the lid up and slides it completely off, reaching in to flick my face. I tell myself that I won’t flinch. Not for his amusement.

It bloody well hurts when they, the numpty thugs, rumble forward and slam right into me. Bracknell turns on his phone’s flashlight feature and forces the bright light into my eyes. 

I’m never handled softly. When I try to wrench my head away from his grasp, he motions towards the numpties. They shock me with ice water and grab at my leg, which has now swollen to a gigantic gourd-like shape in a majestic shade of purple.

The ice water doesn’t really bother me anymore. I tell myself every time that the coffin’s cold enough. That the ice water shouldn’t hurt, and that if this continues I will finally die and be free of this all. They’ve days ago stripped me of my shirt and I’m in only a thin vest and my pants, which have long been ruined after I first soiled myself and Bracknell had enjoyed unleashing an unending fit of laughter. 

It’s silent and the only sound is the water dripping down my body. Bracknell ties me down to a nailed-down stool.

I know what comes next, because this part never changes.

The whipping is about to begin, and my fangs always come out at that. I try not to make a nervous sound so not to give them the satisfaction they obviously crave. But I’m weak. I’m weak with thirst and hunger and I spend all hours I’m awake swapping between their inflicted pain and revisiting my emotional damage because  _ Simon bloody Snow is out there and I can’t let him come over to save me because Bracknell will ruin everything. Bracknell will break him. _

I hear an especially loud crack and recoil, yelling out in fear. The laughing gets louder and I realize that his minions have left and it’s just Bracknell here, enjoying every second of it.

“I didn’t even touch you, you pathetic boy. This is just the beginning, but oh what am I saying?” he pulls back his hand to wipe at his face with a handkerchief. It’s unbearably cold in here, yet he’s sweating profusely. Or is it just that I’ve completely lost sense of the temperature in here?

I find myself longing to be sick so that I can get this part over soon.

“Nothing’s even started yet,” he snarls, and cracks the whip again. “It’s just a harmless little warmup.”

“What will your parents say, if I were to share with them this knowledge? That you cower at a harmless sound and don’t cry out when hit? How backwards is that? What will your Simon say?”

I don’t say anything, and I hope I pass out soon, because he’s put down the whip and gone over to a rusty metal table, where he’s laid out a careful selection of needles and knives.

“You do know that vampires have incredible healing properties. Things that cause permanent damage to a Normal or a mage could just temporarily disadvantage us, but we usually don’t suffer long-term harm. And you must also know,” his voice goes up an octave and a smile flits across his face, “that just as Achilles had his famous heel, the same goes for any living creature bearing an open wound, a small flaw? All we have to do is abuse that target.”

I wince when I see that he’s taken a scalpel. “And you, Pitch boy, have a tremendous target all prepared for me, so thank you.”

“Pleasure’s all mine,” I grunt out, spitting in his face when he leans in to hear me speak.

The slap comes before I register any movement. My head is hit wildly to the side, but I’m proud of myself because I didn’t make a single sound. I slowly turn back and am happy to see that he’s whipped out his handkerchief again and has gone back to studiously scrubbing his cheek.

Bracknell straightens up and twirls the scalpel under the light, flashing it at me so that I grimace and turn away.

“Oh, dear me, is that bothering you, hmm? Let’s turn off the light then. No need to see you when I can hear you just fine.”

He digs into my left thigh just as the light switches off. A numpty must have been listening in then.

He’s aiming where the swelling is the worst. I thought I wouldn’t be able to feel anything, because it’s been numb the past few days. I was wrong, because the shrieking starts just as the tip goes in and slices the area open. The pained yell feels foreign to my ears for a moment before I register that the “please, please, please don’t hurt me” that could normally be said with magic is forced out amidst the hoarse screaming coming from my throat.

There is no magic, because I am no longer worthy of it, down to my underwear and begging for him to stop. At the same time, I can’t seem to look away from my leg, where copious amounts of blood are oozing out in thick streams as Bracknell cuts deeper.

I wonder where all that blood came from. Crowley knows that I haven’t been drinking (or eating, for that matter) enough these days.

I wonder if I’ll be able to walk after this, or if Father will have a specially made cane ready for me. I’ll request an umbrella cane, I think, with a flowery pattern against a navy blue sheet. I want a dragon head with fire and star motifs on the handle. (I think I may be going delirious from the pain, the cold, and  _ all the screaming _ .

I wonder if I’ll survive at all.

When Bracknell grabs hold of my thigh and leans down, one hand still rifling through the bloody mass and gory pulp with the scalpel, I experience a moment of genuine panic and whimper a little between groans, realizing that he could very well lose control of his thirst.

Because that’s always a possibility, and the thirst is always there. When Ebeneza Petty and the Mage died, I’d gone manic and begun drinking down the fallen birds that had been spelled down through the confrontation.

I worry if I’m about to become Bracknell’s next snack.

I hope Simon never comes. Better that he never sees me like this, and that he doesn’t hear about the Mage from Bracknell or from anyone. It’s my last thought before everything becomes as dark as the insides of that blasted coffin that I know I’m about to be dumped in (provided I survive today’s ordeal), and the last thing I detect is the twisted smile that Bracknell has on as he stares hungrily at my bleeding leg.

**SIMON**

It’s been nine days, a little over a week, since Baz’s gone missing, and Fiona calls routinely to inform us of news, of new trackers put up and of Nicodemus and his clan’s efforts.

Penny tells me not to lose hope because Baz is still out there and that “he must still be alive, okay, and fighting. There’s no reason for Bracknell to continue hiding if Baz is dead. His purpose here is to taunt us. This is a kidnapping, not a murder.”

Penny’s a confident person. I’m not sure that I’m anywhere near that.

The last time, when we were (Micah and Penny were; I wasn’t) eating supper and expecting a call from Fiona, she’d barged in through our front door and showed up at our flat (she’d used magic, of course, because everyone loves reminding me of my loss of it).

She’d marched right towards the sofa where I’d been for several hours then, and thrown herself at me, enclosing me in a hug. Penny had burst into tears, unable to talk, while Micah told Fiona about how I’d actively starved myself and haven’t had a proper shower for ages.

I don’t think I’ve been actively avoiding these things.

I think, if anything, this whole surrender to just the quiet and my own thoughts has been passive. If the world has decided to punish me for driving Baz away, shouldn’t I be paying penance as quickly as I can so that Baz can come home?

(If he wants to.)

(I mean, of course, he’d want to come home.)

(I just don’t bloody know if I’m still home for him, because I love him and I made a mistake that may just cost him his life. No amount of refusing to eat and bathe will wash away that guilt. I’m reminded of the spell  **_Out, out, damned spot_ ** and I just wish that I could point a wand at myself and say those words. Perhaps I could have even stopped the Humdrum the clever way if I’d tried that spell at the dry spots.)

(Maybe not. My magic is shite and I always fuck everything up.)

(I’m the worst Chosen One to ever exist, and it’s my fault that Baz is now being razed through hell.)

When Fiona had heard everything from Micah (when she’d decided that she’d heard enough), she’d held me while we both cried.

She’d forced me to drink water and told me that she brought over a little present, hopping out quickly out the door and sneaking a smoke (just like Baz does, right before I snap at him and force him to drop the cigarette right where he stands because  _ he’s flammable _ ) before retrieving a huge stuffed Paddington bear from the boot of her sports car.

We both cried a lot that day.

I went to bed snuggling the bear because it smelled like Baz, like bergamot and cedar and posh spices and arrogance and style and safety.

Right now, it’s precisely five in the morning, at the crack of dawn, but no sign of the sun has yet to show for several hours because this is London. I really should be getting some sleep but I can’t, not when I’m spiralling and my only comfort is the knowledge that Penny and Micah are safe next door and that Nicodemus is making progress. The Paddington bear (I’ve affectionately decided to just call him “Paddington” in my head because it’s a cute-sounding posh name for an adorable being, like “Basilton” is) is laying on its side right by me where Baz sleeps whenever he stays over.

I’ve half a mind to get up and make a cup of peppermint tea, but I know that all the noise will worry Penny into waking up.

I don’t want to be that friend who burdens others with their problems. I’ve always ranted about Baz (especially all through fifth year, when he got all mopey and quiet and consistently skipped dinner at the Great Hall) to Penny, during our time at Watford and even during these past few months about his hogging our flat’s showers (“because the dorm showers are terrible, Snow”) or polishing our fridge clean of bacon.

But now that Baz is gone and in danger, I really can’t bring myself to pester Penny about his annoying quirks. Or about him, in general.

Not when I was the one who led him to this trap. Not when I told him to get out of the flat and my life.

I can’t waste away though, because even though Penny is the scary independent one in our friendship, she needs me. I can’t give up and give in. I owe it to Baz, if he’ll still have me. If he makes it home.

I need to find out more about Bracknell, and Nicodemus must know. He always knows, just as he knew that Baz’s mum’s killer was the Mage.

I get up and out of bed, kicking away the thin sheets (because it’s always cold now, after I lost my magic; I no longer run hot). I fetch my phone from the nightstand and with one arm tightly clutching Paddington, I dial for Nicodemus.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's almost the 21st of June, Simon's birthday!
> 
> (I'll have another chapter posted up by then.) Next up: we hear from Nicodemus, who's heading to Watford for help. And Simon has a long conversation with him.
> 
> As always, comments and suggestions are entirely welcome.


	10. Whether You Want To Or Not

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Baz realizes a key clue to his location (description of gore ahead so beware!), and Nicodemus returns to an old home full of memories. Penny, Micah, Fiona, and Simon get an update.

**BAZ**

When I wake up, I notice the wallpaper first. And the photos, carefully framed with gold rivaling those in Father’s office, haphazardly flung in a dark corner of the bloodstained slaughterhouse of a room.

(I instantly thank my vampire supersenses because otherwise, I would be laying on the floor with no interest in the world; being kept in the dark (literally) is no fun without heightened night vision. Though I don’t know if it’s night and have no way of knowing. It’s always dark in here, and cold.)

But with all the perks that come with being a vampire, they don’t make me less of a shitty observer. I fail to notice that I’m actually outside the coffin. Untied and unbound for once.

I also fail to notice that I can’t feel anything in my left leg until just now, and when I attempt to move it the thigh muscles give a pathetic twitch and become still. I look down slowly, in fear of the state of my leg. My thigh has practically been slashed up into a patty of ground meat, but I don’t think Bracknell actually, um, consumed it; quite possibly he drank from me. I will away these thoughts and force myself to reassess the wound from a medical point of view because I might as well.

Because I know fuck all about first aid, the only thing I can do is rip a strip of cloth from my undershirt and tightly block off the blood flow from the top of my thigh. My leg is the most horrendous shade of purple under a glorious smear of scarlet, and the coppery smell is triggering my urge to drink. And I am the most horrifying way of thirsty. I try to picture what Father would do if he saw me like this, and I giggle.

I giggle so loudly that I begin to think of what my captors would do if they saw me cackling in a cold room. Which makes me look around the room, and catch sight of the wallpaper and photos again.

The wallpaper’s nothing out of the ordinary; in fact, it’s odd that a meat locker or torture chamber of any sort would have an ordinary wallpaper, peeling away in itself. It’s beige and complete with flowery patterns. Besides, the photos clearly show a family of three, though the fair, blond boy in the middle of all of them-- at the beach, while camping, taking dozens of family vacations-- looks nothing like his parents with thick eyebrows and a dark complexion. The only thing all three have in common are their dark eyes.

One of the photos tucked away, with a little boy holding a large fishing rod in one hand precariously, has an inscription on the photo frame: “Alastair fishing, age 9.”

Mary and fucking Morgana.

I think I’m at his house.

**NICODEMUS**

It’s quiet when I arrive at the Watford gates.

I drove, of course, because despite my chosen occupation (see: my CV, which shows my greatest vampiric exploits, ranging from the first time I drained a whole cow without staining my lips to my failure to save Ebb in time) I am not an animal.

(Though Fiona would beg to differ. She’s always been a rebellious punk, that one, and I love her for that. Not that she knows. That I love her, that is.)

I jump out of my sleek, black Jaguar, my only source of pride these days, and slowly approach the fence. I flip through memories in an attempt to recall one of Ebb’s or Fiona’s spells that always opened this ancient doorway, even long after curfew and way after the drawbridge had gone up at night.

**_Humpty Dumpty sat on a wall_ ** was always useful, if you wanted to show off and find yourself on the top of the gates. (Of course, there is still the issue of dropping down safely the other side, but I did not care in my reckless youth.) Fiona’s absolute favourite was  **_The grass is greener on the other side_ ** , but Ebb liked to tell her that it only worked because Watford had the greenest, freshest, immaculately maintained grounds. I’d always jabbed Fiona in the ribs and told her that only a skilled mage could avoid falling into the moat, which was easily green with moss and what I liked to think of as the merwolves’ vomit.

But who am I kidding? I’ve no magic anymore, so there’s no point in wishful thinking. Fiona would say that I miss it. I say that it makes no difference. Same goes for this longing for the baddest punk rock mage in town who happens to currently be very preoccupied with her nephew’s kidnapping.

Same difference.

I had to talk myself into doing this. I’d considered sending my men, but without an intimate knowledge of the campus itself and magic, I doubt any of them could replace me. Whether I want to or not, I have to do this. To avenge Ebb, and to save Baz Pitch.

I quietly run along the moat, and slowly lower myself down the rocky sides. Once I’m at the very bottom, where I’m one step away from the filthy merwolves, I vault myself over to the other side and climb straight up. Then I see the fence with its pitiful inscription: “Magic separates us from the world. Let nothing separate us from one another.” 

I will my superstrength to do the rest of the work and pull myself up, then fall from the other side, straight onto concrete.

Bloody hell. I guess Professor Mitali Bunce has renovated this bit, and the grass is no longer green because there isn’t any bloody grass for me to fall on; I’m certain I’ve bruised both ankles and at least one elbow.

Oh well, I suppose the healing will commence shortly.

I sneak through the grand courtyard, where there (thankfully) is grass, so it should mean that Fiona’s signature spell would have functioned properly. All the lights are off in the Cloisters and Mummers House, which means that the faculty and students are all asleep. Good.

Looking up at the White Chapel, I can’t help but remember Ebb. Baz Pitch said that she’d given her life to save his and Simon’s here. She’s always had a huge heart, and I’m not sure if I can do the same now that I may well have the opportunity to perform a rescue mission myself.

I turn away. Heading towards the Weeping Tower, I brace myself and start heading towards the top floor, where the old Watford Nursery was last found. I figured that if Bracknell had carried out an attack here, maybe the nursery’s White Hare would have some answers about Bracknell himself. Baz Pitch had told me once that when asked about the vampire attack of 2002 the Hare had declined to respond with descriptions of Davy.

I’m certain that it will tell me about Bracknell, however.

One green-suited bastard for another. 

**BAZ**

I must be in Alastair’s house. Am I kept in the basement? This makes the most sense.

Which means I’m in fucking Lancashire. This is the worst possible joke.

Is this where Alastair said he killed his parents? That would explain the bloodstains all over.

I try getting up to investigate, but the pain in my leg is progressing getting worse with intense throbbing as I fully wake. Besides, when I hear the steel door sliding open with a loud crack, I quickly turn and fall back, feigning sleep. 

Because I’m weak. Because I couldn’t withstand the last time Bracknell paid a visit. Because now my only refuge is found when my eyes are closed, picturing wild bronze curls and steady blue eyes.

**SIMON**

We’re just about to have dinner and when Penny yells from the kitchen, “Phone!” both Fiona and I leap up and run towards her. We’ve both been ground down to pieces and have shared at least ten liters of tears between the two of us, but we are both united in our inability to share the phone when Nicodemus calls, because he never calls unless there are good news. Crowley, this little flat has been steeping in sadness and anxiety for so long, all four of us could use some uplifting updates. I miss Baz more than anything.

Fiona’s giving a good fight, but I emerge with my phone proudly in my hands, pressing “accept” and barking, “Yeah?”

“Nico, tell us you have something good for us, will ya?” yells Fiona, just as Micah shouts from the opposite end of the couch, much louder than necessary, “Put it on speaker!”

I do, and Nicodemus’ voice booms from my phone, “It’s pertinent that you remember this, so I’d suggest you grab a pen. Firstly, I went to Watford late last night and I managed to track down the nursery, though it took me a good portion of the night to find it and get some answers from the talking rabbit. The Hare did tell me some things about Bracknell, because it’d witnessed the attack that had brought down Natasha Pitch. Write this down: 209 Willow Creek Drive is the address of Bracknell’s childhood home. Of course, we should also do a full search of Davy’s home in Lancashire. That’s our first order of business. Simon, you can take us there, right?”

“Yes, yes, of course, anything for Baz,” I blurt out, though I know it’d be difficult. I’ve never thought of it as home, and Lancashire is where I first went off and created the bloody Humdrum. Beside me, Fiona motions for a pen and paper and Penny throws both from the kitchen.

“I’ll have my men go through the Bracknell family home, which shouldn’t take much time, and it’s long been abandoned so it shouldn’t be too hard.”

(Penny’s always said that when someone says “shouldn’t” more than once in their sentence, it’s time to abandon all conversation with them because they are either dishonest or unconfident, which may well be the same thing. I’m starting to think that Penny might be too cynical.)

**NICODEMUS**

I have to give them hope, so that’s why I choose to tell them just this much. Even when I’d just learnt from the Hare that the vampire attack had been unsuccessful because “the boy had lived.”

We’d thought that Natasha Pitch was the target that Davy and Bracknell wanted removed, and that Turning her toddler son was an accident. Now, I fear that Baz Pitch might have numbered days, if the original intention had not been to merely make him a creature of the night.

But I can’t tell Simon that. I can’t tell Fiona, because it would break her heart. It would break all their hearts, and though Fiona’s always called me a heartbreaker, I could never bring myself to do such a thing.

Baz Pitch has to live, or Ebb would have died for nothing.

My sister can’t have died for nothing.

I must seek out Bracknell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happiest of birthdays to Simon! Tried making him less sad for this chapter...
> 
> Next up: the boys realize that they've both been idiots, Nicodemus' plan is put into action, and there's more emotional baggage being assessed.


	11. I Want You For Sure

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nicodemus' plan is put in action, and Simon does some reflecting while Baz realises the danger he's in.

**SIMON**

It’s startlingly quiet and awfully dark when I wake up, without the familiar whirring of cabs and flashing lights outside.

But of course it is, because it was just past midnight when my alarm went off and we live on a relatively quiet street (for London, which Penny had insisted upon because I needed peace and calm and she needed a place to study). I’d been sleeping the whole day to get ready for Nicodemus’ plan.

I get up and out of bed, and hastily pull on some trackies and change out of my sleep shirt (one of Baz’s that had been stashed in the flat, and it’s silky and posh, a bit too long on the sleeves, and a dark, luscious shade of forest green). I grab my phone, which had been charging on the nightstand, and go hunting for my shoes.

Once I’ve put them on, I quietly walk over to Penny’s room, which I normally would never dare to enter without permission, especially since Micah’s over, but we all know what day it is.

It’s time to go search through the Mage’s home, which Nicodemus and Fiona alike say is our best possible lead at the moment. Penny had told me that I’d be a fool not to believe them, so I did. Believe them, because I do what Penny says and it usually works.

A tousle-haired Micah is shuffling around the en-suite washroom when Penny motions for me to go in, so I do. She’s sitting on the bed and she pats the spot next to her. When I sit down, she starts rubbing circles on my back and I remember how Baz loved it whenever I patted his stomach. Practically purring every time, that prat.

We’re both staying silent, and the only sound in the room is Micah’s splashing his face with water when Penny suddenly whispers, “You know it’s alright, yeah?” I hum neutrally in reply, because I don’t know what to say.

The truth is, I’m terrified beyond belief at the prospect of returning to Lancashire. It’s not that there are too many bad memories there, because there aren’t. All my memories of Lancashire involved the “infernal” (as Baz deems it) red rubber ball and the care homes that juggled me around, but I also remember Lancashire as the place where I first met the Mage. Going off freaked me out, sure, but it brought me to Watford. It brought me roast beef and mince pies and sour cherry scones. I didn’t know how remarkable it was then, but Lancashire brought me a home in Watford and with Baz. And I suppose everything’s come a bit full circle now that I know where the Mage spent his summers-- right by my side to protect me.

But now, without magic and without Baz, I’ll have to return to Lancashire the same way I did back when I was left to fend for myself before the Mage told me everything. And that’s why I find myself shaking a bit on the bed, quiet against Penny, who is fretting just a little bit.

“Anything you’re feeling,” Penny starts again, “is absolutely normal. As your best friend I’ll be there with you. So will Micah, Nicodemus, and Fiona.” I hum again.

“And Baz would be so, so proud of you.”

I don’t know if he would be. I ruined everything with us, and now he’s stuck somewhere with a dangerous rogue vampire who even Nicodemus fears. It’s all my fault, but I’ll do all I can to try to bring him home, even if it means wandering through the Mage’s home in the middle of Lancashire. I owe Baz as much. I have to give myself the chance to tell him that it was all a mistake and I’ll get help and talk to a proper psychologist and that he’s always been there for me and I am so, so sorry that I couldn’t be with him through this. I need to let him know it all.

I hurt him, but I love him and I always have and always will. I want him for sure.

So this time, there’s a lump in my throat when I answer, “Thanks, Pen.”

We’ve got our arms around each other when Micah steps out of the washroom and says that it’s time to go.

On our way out to Penny’s car, I stop to take an old family heritage sword that Baz had nicked from one of his summer houses (he’d insisted that I take it and “It’s not like Father or Daphne would realize, Simon. They’re very daft when it comes to the state of one of their subpar holiday homes.”). It’s not the Sword of Mages, but it works like an extension to my arm. (I think that it’s because I no longer have the magic to summon the Sword of Mages and my Normal self anatomically prefers this rustic forgotten family heirloom. Baz thinks it’s because I fight with my heart and my heart belongs to him, that ruddy prat.) I grab the sword from the very back of the shoe cabinet, where I’d hid it behind some posh pairs of dress shoes that Baz had gotten me but had fully expected that I would never wear.

The weapon lightly flashes in the moonlight when I step out onto the little porch, and I slip it into a scabbard clipped onto my jeans. I must look a frightful sight, because when Micah turns over he gives a thumbs up and Penny nods slowly, but approvingly (my friends are only capable of inappropriate reactions).

We drive off into the night, and I hope I haven’t agreed to a mistake, because I honestly do not know what we might find there. The Mage killed Baz’s mum. Who knows what else he’s done.

But he can’t be all that bad. He made himself my legal guardian so I could study at Watford. So I could learn magic. So I could live, eat, and bathe in it.

And now that I’ve hurt and killed him, what’s left of his life is in that home. I have to go and see it to see him for who he was. I have to understand first before I can find Baz.

**NICODEMUS**

“Operation Willow is go.”

“Yes, Boss,” I hear in my ear, and I end the call.

I’ve told my men the precise directions to search the Bracknell home on 209 Willow Creek Drive. I’ve equipped them with plenty of pistols, because they are gentlemen and will not fight like animals. I’ve told them to avoid direct confrontation if possible, but if Bracknell’s still living at home and hasn’t moved out yet (though the records indicate that he has several flats in the UK), the situation might be difficult and go out of hand. 

Besides, it would be terribly unwise to . . . subdue him. We need him alive for information regarding Baz’s whereabouts. And he currently has the upper hand with his life, as I‘ve made it a sort of personal goal to find out what really happened with the Mage, Bracknell, and Natasha’s death.

As I’m driving up to the rendezvous point about an hour from central London and three hours from Lancashire, I see the red of Penelope Bunce’s car and the black of Fiona’s, both parked right by the curb. I drive over, park, and get out of the car. Penelope Bunce gets out first, shoos the boys out, and to my surprise Fiona emerges from their car as well, looking all suave from riding shotgun. The three of them pile on to my car (Fiona on shotgun, of course, again), and we’re all dead silent, the only sound in the night my car engine’s rumbling.

“So it should be a little over three hours from Lancashire. Quite a long drive, so I hope you brought water and snacks if you need any. Or if you want to get some sleep before we arrive, that’s good, too.”

Micah chirps from the back, “No sleep! We all slept for the whole day, and we should remain alert. And Penny brought bread rolls and leftover scones that Simon made before!” He pronounces it as scoh-nes, not scones, and I am just about to mock the American for it when I notice that Simon’s head has drooped a little in response.

“Hey, Simon. You ready to go back to Lancashire? What’s wrong?” I say, and I think to myself how preposterous it is that I find myself truly caring about the Chosen One’s feelings when I’d vowed to myself decades ago to walk away from the World of Mages. I _am_ worried about Simon Snow.

“Nothing. Just, whatsit, um Baz made them with me so . . .” he trails off, and I don’t continue prying. I’m here to help, not to snuff out all his emotions. And the poor man deserves to reminisce in private.

I signal to turn out from the side of the road and start driving when I feel a hand on my arm. My heart flits and skips a beat, thinking it’s Fiona, but when I turn my head I find that it’s Simon, and he doesn’t look so sad anymore. He looks determined.

I hope he can give a motivational speech so I won’t have to. I’m crap at those.

But he doesn’t, because when his expression hardens into seriousness and he holds something up to my face, forcing me to stop driving, it’s not to inspire us. Honestly, I would have preferred to give a motivational speech or several hundred of them myself if I could have been spared from the embarrassment that followed:

He’s holding a packet from an IV drip full of what the label alleges is O-neg when he says, “I just wanted to help so I got this from Baz’s stash at our flat. I hope this is both water and a snack for you.”

I lower my head dramatically until I’m pressing against the horn, and I honk it with all my might in frustration.  
  


**BAZ**

I smell that something’s wrong before I hear it. Or see it, because I’m still locked in this dark and filthy basement full of creepy childhood photos of a smiling Alastair with missing teeth and appallingly suitable bangs.

It’s the metallic tang of fresh-spilt blood that pulls me from a deep, exhausted sleep, because I’m hungry and thirsty. And disturbed. And a vampire with a steadily bleeding and throbbing leg that he can’t bring himself to examine at the moment.

Next comes the frantic, desperate yelling. I recognize the voice. It’s one of the guards assigned to keep on the night watch of the basement. They don’t go by their names. Just numbers. This one sounds like 009. They all have their standard posting times and they rotate, and sometimes when I scream under Bracknell’s ministrations I can hear their glee (that’s how I tell the time now-- from their voices; I know, it’s barking mad, innit? I suppose one has to make do in a dark, windowless basement with no decent clock).

A stronger, heavier wave of blood-- the same blood-- wafts over, and my fangs drop down, partly from anxiety and partly from an overbearing thirst. I sit up in the dark and slowly wiggle with my bound arms and legs over to the side of the door, pausing to catch my breath when my left leg threatens to surrender. Just in case it’s a rescue mission.

There’s a loud gunshot, and I hear a very distinct squelch and long groan when what I assume is a body falls on the floor. I turn to my side and vomit, but I’m weak and thirsty and hungry so all that comes out is a little water and bile. I concentrate on heaving breaths through my mouth so that I take in a less of a smell. I wish I could wipe my mouth to clean myself from the little gastric fluids I managed to dispel, but I’m all tied up no matter how much I struggle and pull against the confining restraints. And my left leg is all shite now.

The door squeaks sharply when a certain weight is thrown against it, and I hear the second guard’s muffled shrieks as the door continues to shake with thud after thud. I stop struggling with the ropes when an abrupt snapping sound cuts through the painful throws against the door, and all sounds stop mid-scream.

I brace myself and hope it’s blue eyes, bronze curls, and a fiery, earthy, scone-y-smelling Simon. There’s an irrational part of me that wants to find something, anything, to cover my bruised and battered body with a tattered vest and nothing but my pants and thick ropes. If it is Simon, I don’t want him seeing me like this. I don’t want him to think that I’d given up because I know I did for the first few days. It’s been only what I can estimate as a good two weeks, and the daily beatings have been so regular that I find myself dreading the one sure to come. But something’s up out there, and I can only hope that it’s Simon.

But I can’t smell him over all this violence and fear in the air. There’s an intense panic going on outside, and a dozen scents of blood and sweat in the air is making it hard to place him.

He has to be here, though.

A part of me is hoping that it won’t be him. Bracknell will hurt him, tie him in chains, and beat him in front of me just to satisfy his sadism. Bracknell will tell him the truth about the Mage and his childhood. It will break him, and I won’t forgive myself if getting to me resulted in Simon heartbroken and crying in front of me, the same way he was when he asked-- begged-- for me to give him an out.

Yet, I’ve been waiting for Simon all this time, and why isn’t he here yet, where is he, and how has he not found me yet, surely he still wants me, and is Simon okay?

The second guard must be dead, or at least fatally injured after that snap. The first has been deposited right by the door, judging by the strength of the smell of his blood and the proximity of the volume of his intermittent whimpers.

When the door slams open suddenly, I almost piss myself with excitement (because I’m disturbed, again, and because I’ve dreamed myself stupid that it’s going to be Simon, and he’s _here_ and _alive_ and _come to save me_.).

But it’s not Simon.

It’s Alastair, and he does not look happy, the sides of his face streaming with blood and sweat as he wordlessly drops a pistol on the ground. All the while, he’s glaring at me with an expression of intense hatred.

Was there any sort of rescue mission at all? What I know is that anything that Alastair had planned had gone balls-up, and I’m on the business end of his anger.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry sorry for the lateness! Bit busy at the moment. Will update asap, is not before the end of this week, for sure latest by early next week!
> 
> Next up: Chapter title "Who Heard?" so interpret that what you will!


	12. Who Heard?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I know I said that I'd update latest by the week before last; I've been a bit busy but luckily my schedule's all cleared up for the next few weeks so we'll be back to weekly updates!
> 
> This chapter is quite long (over 3000 words!) but I really wanted to explore the psyche of Simon, Baz, and Nicodemus as several plot points align. (No spoilers, but this one's really pivotal!)

**BAZ**

I watch silently as Bracknell, with sweat and blood dripping down his face and matted hair, retrieves containers of motor oil from the back of the room. I hear a rhythmic thumping upstairs, and I can only assume that the numpties have lumbered their way out of the house. Good for them; even those glorified rocks and my co-kidnappers deserve a break.

I try very hard not to move or fidget in any way. There’s a very large possibility that whatever had happened to kill those guards (Normal? Vampiric?), leaving just him and me in a dungeon of a basement, had left Bracknell suicidal.

Bracknell pours oil all over the basement grounds, and a stream of it is slowly approaching where I sit. As quietly as possible, I slide away towards the walls. I can’t die like this. I owe Simon an explanation. I need to tell him that no matter what, I’m still his and I want him for sure.

Bracknell heads out with two more large jugs, and from the doorway I see that he’s drizzled just a touch of oil, sadistically artistic with it, over the fallen guardsmen. He hauls one into the room, staring pointedly at me. He pulls it out again and swaps it for another one, a tall and lanky guard. His footsteps echo as he goes up the stairs, apparently satisfied now.

The stairs! I’d never seen the stairs before. I’d never had the chance to look out the door properly until now. And it must only be him standing in the way of my escape.

I excitedly stand up, or I attempt to. As soon as I hop us to my feet, my mangled left leg makes a disturbing squelching sound and I collapse on the cold granite, blood mixing with oil. My left thigh’s puffy and purplish. I’m thinking that it must be infected with more than Bracknell's damning vampirism.

I’m not certain that my supernatural healing can save me in time. And I guess both my gammy leg and Bracknell are in the way of freedom.

I smell a stronger scent of oil, somewhere upstairs. 

From one depressed as fuck vampire, I must say that using the traditional methods makes it just a touch scarier.

When I stopped thinking in the woods, back before Simon stupidly and bravely and stupidly bravely kissed me away from the fire around and within me, I never thought to do it in any way other than magic. I loved magic, and it seemed appropriate to light a match in my heart and blow on the tinder, just like my mother did in the nursery.

How much does a mage have to hate magic to be able to burn a house down with motor oil and a lighter?

I resort to crawling on my belly, military-style, and my left leg protests with every slow drag I manage. When I find myself finally at the staircase, out of breath and panting from exhaustion and pain, I rely on my right knee pushing down to give myself leverage to reach the next level of stairs.

It’s a slow journey, and a delirious, pain-driven part of me has selected Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony to be the song stuck in my head at this timely moment. My legs are moving so slowly and jerkingly that it really isn’t on beat to the music mimicking fate knocking on the door in my head.

Learning classical music is a gift. Having one of the more popular and therefore lesser pieces playing on repeat as your left leg dribbles blood all over your kidnapper’s carpeted staircase while you’re down in your tattered underwear in a very unsexy way is a fucking nightmare.

When I’ve made it to the top of the stairs, I let out a slow sigh and push again with my right leg. I’m finally on the ground floor.

This escape is possible. All I have to do is to make it out of the house and steal a phone somewhere! I can wash up at Fiona’s and make it back for supper at Penny and Simon’s! I can tell Simon that I’ve always and will always be incorrigibly, unfathomably, inexorably in love with him!

I hear it before I see it. A loud, distinct snap sounds, and a long, grinding crunch follows. There’s a sharp pain, and then numbness. My right hand’s been stepped on very deliberately, and my thoughts are too coherent for my taste. I’d have thought that something like this would render me screaming, but after these long weeks? I can only morbidly think _oh would you look at that-- another debilitating injury from Bracknell, how lovely_.

“Going somewhere?” He reeks of oil, and his voice is like sandpaper, scratchy, vile, and sounding as if it would hurt if it crawled all over your skin and disappeared down your throat. It certainly sounds raw, like it had a hard time emerging from his throat, the snake.

I, Tyrannus Basilton Grimm-Pitch, am royally fucked.

**SIMON**

When we pull up on the driveway by the house, it’s very early in the morning. The house is in the middle of nowhere. Chickens squawk angrily from a nearby farm, and we’re surrounded by fields that make me feel a bit warm inside.

“I thought it would look sketchy or something, honestly,” Micah pipes up cheerfully.

“Dodgy,” says Penny lightly, correcting the American’s Americanism. I hear Nicodemus sigh and Fiona hooting up front, and I know that they’re trying to make this easier than it is. Visiting the Mage’s house, I mean. And Micah’s right, because the Mage’s house doesn’t even look half as evil as Baz’s Hampshire home does.

I exit the car first, and I can’t help but stand still and stare at the scene in front of me. It’s a lovely, quaint little cottage complete with a respectable backyard that’s just a touch overgrown with weeds. There’s even two tiny ditches of dirt that haven’t quite been rained over. Tire tracks? An animal’s stashed-away bones? One’s certainly bigger than the other, and a raised bump instead of a proper ditch.

Fiona starts hysterically giggling, wheezing out her words between laughs, saying something like “Davy. Fucking Davy with his secret lair looking like a cute romantic getaway. Typical.”

The grass crunches under my feet and the morning dew slips down and wets my trainers slightly in a not really uncomfortable kind of way as we walk to the front door. I feel a bit at home, and the air smells just a fraction fresher. It’s peaceful here, and I’ve always envisioned the Mage running around busy during the summers, preparing himself for war with the Old Families. But he’s always retired to this place. Home base.

As we walk up to the porch, Nicodemus rushes forward with one hand on the door knob and another backwards towards us as a warning. “Get behind me. Just in case.”

“I thought that this house was abandoned! No one’s at home, you said.” Penny exclaims, just as Fiona laughs and says to Nicodemus, “Nonsense, you self-sacrificing twat,” and hops up the low stairs and helps Nicodemus pick the lock.

Micah asks Fiona a little timidly on why we can’t just use magic for the door. “ **_Open sesame_ **always lands a solid one.”

“No magic, Mic. The lock could be enchanted. Knowing Davy, that’d probably mean anything from an attack of enraged chickens to a horde of evil spirits.”

“Ah,” Micah says in a very soft exhale, and Penny hugs him around the waist.

I’ve been silent all this time because I don’t know how to feel about this. I’m not sure if agreeing to Nicodemus’ plan of getting me out here in Lancashire was a good idea.

The door abruptly swings open when Fiona gets through with the lock, and we sneak inside. It’s good for us that it’s so early that no one in the vicinity of the property is awake, and that we’re in “one of the most sparsely populated countryside areas in all of England,” as Penny wisely put it somewhere around 3 A.M. last night when I’d voiced the concern of us practically breaking and entering. Not practically. Literally.

We decide to split up when we see a set of stairs going up, even after Micah protests under his breath a bit jokingly, “If Hollywood has taught me one thing, it’s to never separate from a group when you’re doing something sketchy.”

“Dodgy!” This time, both Penny and Fiona yell it quite enthusiastically.

“Oi, bugger off!” is Micah’s very creative and overly British response.

I’m still keeping quiet, tagging along with Penny and Micah as Fiona and Nicodemus head upstairs, Fiona having grabbed a shovel from the truck of the car. Nicodemus says that that must be where the Mage’s study’s at, and thus is the most likely place to seek out a clue on Bracknell’s past. I don’t think I’d like to be reminded of how much I didn’t know about the Mage’s past. I don’t want to know what else he’s done besides taking Baz’s mum away from him, and burning up a Watford nursery full of innocent kids.

Thinking of Baz now makes my heart squeeze a bit. I miss him, and I don’t know if he even thinks of me anymore. It’s been two weeks and a day now since I told him to get out of the flat. Since he’s gone missing.

Penny heads towards the kitchen, rifling her hands through everything as she works at magically cataloging all she sees. While holding her wand aloft, she sings softly to herself, “Now I know my ABC’s,” a little out of tune, and a hologram of the twenty-six letters pops up at eye-level.

“A: Jar of black fluid. Likely for sorcery. Why the kitchen as a storage place, though? Curious. File away for later,” Penny says, and the words write themselves in the air for the first entry.

“Penny,” Micah calls out from the far cupboard, and Penny hops over. He procures another jar, this one covered with opaque parchment paper all over, hiding its contents. Micah peels the paper and masking tape away, and he gags while Penny swears colourfully and fumbles with the jar he’s almost dropped on the floor. I walk over, bracing for the worst.

It’s a baby dragon. A pink, fleshy embryo, frozen and stagnant in time, stuck in its gestational stages. Its beak hadn’t been fully formed, and its small figure looks twisted in a grotesque mask of horror and pain. It doesn’t even have scales yet, and has tiny nubs growing out of its back.

It never had a chance to fly, breathe fire, or spread its wings. Baz would be horrified if he saw this. I remember him insisting on saving the dragon with the nursery rhyme. He’s always said he’s never felt so powerful as when I poured my magic into him. I loved to tell him that I’d never felt as balanced and at peace with myself as I did then in that moment, and it’s true. And now I’ve lost him, I find myself looking blankly at a baby dragon for clues to the man who took Baz.

Baz would feel sickened and find a way to bring the Mage back from the dead to kill him for robbing the dragon from its life.

I don’t feel sick though, because I can feel an almost slow, looming sense of dread instead of disgust.

Penny’s put the jar down and moved to other, more _um, controversial_ assortments of materials in the kitchen when I look around at the kitchen tiles and notice the faint pencilled lines on the wall by the stove. They’re neatly marked with dates, just the month and year. Soft lines and a woman’s handwriting. There are several of them, ending just below the height of the countertop. Penny’s rattling off detailed descriptions on the impressive inventory in her hologram, but I’m barely listening because I realize something with a jolt.

Because I remember those lines. Mummy taking my height measurements, and I remember saying that I’d grow big and strong to protect her from the monsters Papa said would come for us and the World of Mages.

I remember this place.

I don’t understand. I’ve been here before.

Everything falls away, and I feel awfully empty. It’s like with the Humdrum again, with the sucking, panicked feeling. I want to get away but I can’t.

Faraway, like static, I hear Penny asking if I need water or hot tea, and then correcting herself because _I’m being absurd, sorry Simon, of course there wouldn’t be tea here_ , if I’m okay, and telling me that it’s okay, I’ll be okay, that it’s absolutely normal to take a break before continuing. I slide down by the wall and my legs go slack. I’ve my head in my hands, and everything is too loud, too much, too bright all of a sudden. I can barely breathe, but I force myself to go through the motions with my chest heaving anyway, because I have to survive this. For Baz to have a chance.

I’m barely listening to Penny, who’s trying her best to gauge my responses and calm my panic attack. I shut off and focus on my breathing myself. 

I can’t hear anything.

**NICODEMUS**

Fiona rummages through the Mage’s personal bookshelf and I choose to rifle through the papers on his desk. She’s telling me half-heartedly about Malcolm Grimm’s decision to start enlisting the help of the Old Families. They’ve the resources but not necessarily the manpower to seek out Baz. Fiona says that she’s unsure on whether or not to let Malcolm know about Bracknell, but with the Old Families anything’s possible. As soon as one elder member of these wealthy families remembers Davy’s past, the truth will tell itself.

The knicknacks that Davy had kept on his desk are miscellaneous, and most of them look as if they’re for dark magic.

I’ll call the children up later to let them know. Perhaps they’ve found something similar downstairs.

I call Rodrigo, my right-hand man, thinking that it’s best I get an update on Operation Willow. It’s not normal for them to remain out of contact with me this long.

The call goes directly to voicemail.

I try not to let the panic show on my face. Better to not frighten Fiona or burden her with this. Did I send my men to a kill zone?

I dial the number again frantically.

There’s a click, and he picks up.

“Boss, they’re all gone. Everything’s gone.”

“What?” I stop myself, take a breath, and continue, “What exactly do you mean?”

“There was a massacre, and he used a fire. We’re certain that Baz Pitch was held in the basement.”

“Pardon?”

“I put a tracker on his car, I did, Sir. He drove away, but he’d burnt up our cars. He used motor oil all over the house. They’re all gone. Dead, Sir. He buried them all. He didn’t see me.”

I struggle to absorb all this. I look over at Fiona, who has stopped with the searching and is studying my expression, and I can’t think of what to say to her.

“The hostage. Is he . . .?” I simply can’t bring myself to say it, or for that matter, say his name. The fear I feel betrays any semblance of the walls I’d built throughout these years as an outcast of the World of Mages.

“I’m afraid I didn’t see him, Sir. I only saw the target get in the car and drive away.”

“You said you put a tracker on the vehicle.”

“Yes, Sir. I also checked the basement, Sir. One body. Matching the description you gave me. It’s burnt beyond recognition, but from the size and the fact that it was the only one in the basement with another corpse outside the room, by the door, like he was a lookout . . .” he trails off.

“Sir, it’s just that I think you shouldn’t give up. That we can at least bring Bracknell to justice. We can trace his route.”

“Thank you, Rodrigo. I’ll let you know if I have further instructions. Can you pass along this information, all that you’ve just told me, to those back at the pub?”

“Yes, yes, I can do that. Of course, Sir.”

“Good.” I hang up the call, and look at Fiona. She mouths the word, “How?” and I know that she knows. She’s always been able to read me. She knows me best, and I failed Fiona. 

I failed my men by sending them straight into a bloody massacre. 

I failed Baz, and now his body is lying in Bracknell’s burnt-up crisp of a house. Just a few kilometers away from here.

God, what will Malcolm Grimm say? How will he recover from this, after losing Natasha? And to think that we’ve been doing all this, playing a child’s game and thinking that a few vamps could track Bracknell down to find Baz.

I hold my gaze with Fiona’s as she takes hold of my arm and shakes it violently in knowing grief, and I break.

We both do.

**BAZ**

In the end, he makes me watch the house burn. He hastily throws me into the backseat of his car, a black, beat-up Land Rover, and speeds away, the two of us smelling like the oil and fire.

He tells me how Nicodemus had almost succeeded in besting him, but had made the fatal mistake of not bringing Simon over.

“If he had brought the boy, I wouldn’t have killed his men. Well, not all of them, anyway. They’re all buried in the backyard now. The fire’s not for them. They don’t deserve it. They were just playthings, just dogs, of Nicodemus’. I belonged to that life once.”

I don’t respond.

He rolls the windows down and lets the wind roar by our ears. I’m tied down with ropes and all three seatbelts at the backseat.

I think of screaming, because perhaps, just perhaps, someone would notice and bring me home.

But it’s at the break of dawn and no one’s awake in Lancashire. Absolutely no one would be here. Bracknell’s said it himself: even Nicodemus isn’t here and he sent only his men, who are all fallen now. The only other person who could possibly be at Lancashire is the Mage, but he’s dead.

Did anyone think to relay back to Nicodemus that I’m here and I’m alive?

I don’t scream, because who am I kidding? No one will be able to hear me.

**SIMON**

Sunshine, rosebud, softly pattering rain on the tin roof, a baby dragon whose mother had been killed, many chickens that I could feed in the yard, eggs, grass, a woman’s soft, fair hair, and her voice. Her voice saying, “Be careful when you feed the chickens! Be gentle. Here,” and a firm grasp on my wrist, chubby and pale.

Her voice saying, “Simon, Simon my rosebud boy” as I ask for one more lullaby before bed.

Her voice saying, “Simon, Simon my rosebud boy” as I lie awake, shivering in Watford after Baz’s mum had a Visiting.

I don’t know her name. She was just Mummy to me, and I remember toddling after her and Papa.

Papa. I remember the Mage, but without a mustache. Younger. Young without the wrinkles, the gelled hair, and the pained look. Young without the blood on his face and the loosening grip on my hand when I told him to stop hurting me at the Weeping Tower.

The Mage with kind hands and a soft voice, saying that it won’t be long, that foster care will be good to me.

The Mage saying, “My boy. I found you” after I’d gone off that first time near here in Lancashire. After I’d dreamed myself sick of wanting to a footballer mansion or just a mother and father. Before he’d taken me to Watford and made me his legal father.

Long after he’d christened me his birth son.

I feel as though I’m about to burst and my skin is on fire. It’s very warm, and my fingertips are scratching at my sword, which is still snug in my scabbard. The cool of the metal burns upon my touch, and I’m up to the brim with memories that aren’t possible, with fragments that were blocked off somehow. It’s a trip down a memory minefield. 

But now I know, and I’m irretrievably ruined.

I’m not sure if I would have liked to know.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... How did we feel about that? Simon's caught up in a barrage of memories, Baz has orchestrated a valiant but unsuccessful escape, and Nicodemus has given up. Or has he?
> 
> Coming up next week will be "What, No, No," which pretty much sums up the aftermath of everything that has taken place in this chapter.

**Author's Note:**

> I had a lot of fun with this one, and all comments and suggestions are welcome. I know that there's been an influx of songfics due to Rainbow Rowell's amazingly accurate tweet, but I wanted to give it a go myself. Consider this my literal interpretation of Giants, with a side of angst and feels!


End file.
